by Guy N Smith
T don't like the sound of this Peters and Bostock pair one little bit.' Janie entwined her fingers until the ends suffused with blood. 'Oh Peter, it isn't safe at nights with them prowling about. They've already been to prison for violence.' 'I doubt whether they'll harm us,' he smiled. 'All they're interested in is rabbits and hares, and as far as I'm concerned they're welcome to them'
'But they've got a grudge against us, you could tell that by the way they were talking in the pub last night.'
'Simply because we're English, and there must be an awful lot of other Welshmen who share their views.' 'Maybe they killed Snowy?'
'I doubt it very much. Country folk aren't like that. They enjoy their various field sports but they abhor cruelty and suffering. Me, I'm blaming the Wilsons but, as Calvert said, I doubt very much whether we'll ever prove it. Well, it doesn't look as if I'm going to get much work done today. I'd better go and cut that cat down and bury it. The last thing we want is for Gavin to go up the field and find it hanging up there. I'll do it right away.'
'And a hutch for the rabbit . . . ?' 'OK, OK. One thing at a time. First I'll go and see to the cat.'
He donned his duffle-coat and went out through the back door. The cloud had not lifted; if anything it had come down lower—a thick grey blanket that obscured everything and made weird shapes out of perfectly ordinary everyday things. Peter shivered. God, it was cold. The damp got right through no matter what he was wearing.
He didn't relish the prospect of going up to the circle again. It wasn't just the thought of having to look upon the horrendously mutilated cat again, or even that he'd have to handle the corpse this time—It went deeper than that; violent death in a silent grey world. Almost a—warning. Get out, or this might happen to you!
Peter licked his lips. His mouth was dry and his head was thumping like a voodoo drum. He gripped the handle of the spade he was carrying. It was more than just a tool, it was a weapon, a steel blade that would be deadly if it was used correctly to hit somebody at the right angle in the right place. It was a disconcerting thought, an association with the violence he loathed.
The twisted pines loomed up ahead of him through the fog, deformed giants making threatening gestures with their misshapen arms: Go away, you have been wanted! He held the spade tightly and felt tiny beads of cold sweat starting to break out on his body.
He'd work quickly—dig a hole and get the cat buried, then try and erase it from his memory. It was hanging from the furthest branch of the nearest pine. It was—
Oh Jesus Christ, the cat was gone! Just a single strand of frayed bloodsoaked rope . . .
He ran forward breathlessly and began to search the ground frantically. The rope must have snapped under the strain. Maybe the raven was responsible.
But the ground was bare. He scrabbled with the spade, scuffing up the dry earth as though he might uncover the bloodied corpse. No chance; an inch or two below the surface it was all solid rock. Hell, he should have brought a pick.
Where the bloody hell had that cat gone? Something had taken it within the last hour, since he had brought PC Calvert up here and shown him the grisly evidence. It was too high up for a prowling fox to reach, and too heavy for a raven or a buzzard to carry off, even if they could have snapped the rope.
Peter straightened up. It was useless looking for tracks, and even if he found any he probably wouldn't recognise them. He found himself listening intently; there was just a steady drip-drip of moisture falling from the saturated conifer foliage. Otherwise silence. The raven had gone. It had no cause to remain now that its carrion feast had disappeared.
Oh God, what was he going to tell Janie? He'd have to lie, and lie convincingly, that he'd buried the creature. And just pray that it didn't turn up somewhere in a day or two. No way could he tell her the truth.
He was just about to retrace his steps when his strained ears picked up a sound amidst the gentle fall of the dripping damp. He tensed and tried to recognise it. Footsteps coming this way, but certainly not human. Something else, a steady munching sound as if—as if whatever it was was chewing on something like—like the raw, bloody flesh of a dead cat!
Stark primeval fear drove him back against a tree trunk, his spade raised like a caveman's club poised for a fight to the death with a prehistoric monster. Cold sweat was running down his face now, and he smelt his own scent of fear.
The noise grew louder; feet were scraping over the hard ground, coming this way. He thought briefly of flight, but knew his legs wouldn't make it. Whatever it was, he was afraid it would run him down and hunt by scent if it couldn't see him through the fog, then tear him apart as it had the cat.
He stared ahead until his eyes hurt, seeing shapes that weren't there. The mist was playing cruel tricks that had his pulses racing, his heart thumping until he thought it would surely burst.
Then he saw it. He tried to tell himself that it was the ram that had been lost in the forest at the weekend, but it was too big, with branch-like horns that thrust this way and that. It stood erect as it smelled Peter.
That was when he began to shout an incoherent, meaningless barrage of words that were meant to frighten, but they died away to a hoarse whisper as he cowered back, the spade suddenly too heavy to wield.
Now it saw him as it turned in his direction. And his mind pictured the mangled remains of Snowy, the granary cat, and remembered what its fate had been.
7
Realisation comes gradually in the depths of the ultimate in fear. For Peter Fogg it came agonisingly slowly. The creature materialised out of the mist, a savage beast of unknown species, a fearsome thing that stared fixedly at him with wide eyes and then in a second was gone, leaping back, twisting and turning, racing in full flight. And all that was left was the drumming of hooves that seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Not just one set, many of them, a pounding herd that even now caused the rocky ground to vibrate as they embarked on headlong flight.
'Jesus Christ—deer!' He spoke aloud, lowering his spade to the ground and leaning his full weight on it. He was sweating heavily and a terrible sinking sensation in his heart and stomach had knotted his guts so that he almost vomited. Not quite. God, it was a good job nobody could see him like this because—or could they!
He found himself glancing around, feeling that even now somebody was lurking out there in the dense low cloud watching his every movement. But that was silly, because if he couldn't see them, whoever they were, they couldn't see him. It was as simple as that. His nerves getting the better of him, the way Janie's did, and he was succumbing to primitive childish fears; pull the bedclothes up over your head because the bogeyman's watching you.
He gave a laugh. It sounded strange, a kind of cackle, but it helped. He'd been scared to hell by a bloody roe buck, the most shy and gentle of ah" creatures, just because he'd no idea that deer roamed these hills and forests. But it didn't explain the cat's disappearance. That was the most worrying factor of all.
He shouldered his spade and began the steep trek downhill. He was surprised how quickly the cottage with its adjoining granary appeared before him out of the gloom. The stone circle was a lot closer than he'd thought.
He started when he saw Janie in the doorway. She must have heard him coming. Or else she had been standing there ever since he'd left.
'Whatever's the matter?' There was an expression of alarm on her face, and her body was tense as she gripped the doorpost.
'Nothing.' He made a show of picking a piece of slate and scraping the spade with it. Some particles of rust flaked off, powdered like dust; maybe she'd believe it was dirt from digging. 'Nothing at all. Everything's OK.'
'No it isn't. Don't lie, Peter; don't try and fool me, because I know it isn't. You've had one hell of a scare. I can tell that just by looking at your face.'
'All right, I've had a bit of a fright.' He leaned on the spade again, thinking that he should have known all along that he wouldn't be able to fool her. 'There's deer here, Janie. A big herd, judging by t
he sound of their hooves in the fog. They came upon me in the fog; a bit unnerving when you find yourself face to face with a creature that size before you can identify it. Like that ram that came out of the forest on Saturday.'
'You haven't buried that cat, have you!' Oh God, female intuition again. Or perhaps he had not been away long enough. He'd lost all track of time.
'No.' He gave up trying to lie, 'I haven't.'
"Why not?'
'Because—because it's gone!'
'Gone!' Janie was gripping the doorpost with both hands now. 'What d'you mean, it's gone!'
'Just that. Something must have taken it. A fox maybe.'
'But you said it was hanging high up in a tree, as high as your head. How could a fox possibly get it down? It's something else that's taken it, isn't it? The Wilsons or those two poacher chaps—or something else!'
'We're letting our imaginations run away with us.' He dropped the spade and pushed past her into the house. 'A string of coincidences which we're interpreting the wrong way.'
'There's something sinister going on here/ She followed him into the hall. 'I don't know what it is, but we've suddenly found ourselves caught up in it.'
'Let's not go into all that again. There are perfectly logical reasons for everything that's happened, I've no doubt whatsoever. It all stems from a peasant family who hate the English, coupled with the fact that I've stopped them from hiking on these fields, where they've probably come scrambling ever since they were old enough to ride. I'm going to make some son of a hutch for that rabbit.'
He wasn't going to get any work done today, that was for sure. Better to occupy himself with something mundane, not that carpentry had ever been one of his special talents. He'd hated woodwork at school, even more than metalwork. But suddenly it was a kind of therapy. He found a hammer and some nails and went up into the granary, taking a sadistic delight that he could suddenly hit something.
The task was completed in less than ten minutes, simply because he found an old hen coop that needed no more than a little restoration: new hinges on the lid and some loose nails knocked back in. Well, he could go back to his work now if he wanted. But he knew that he would not settle to writing that day. He had recovered from the shock of the deer, but the missing cat still plagued him. It had to be the Wilsons; he told himself over and over again that it couldn't be anybody else. But even so he could not dispel the lingering doubt at the back of his mind.
He went back down to his study and decided to rearrange the books on the shelving. Just for something to do until he fetched Gavin at four o'clock. He hoped the boy was OK. Maybe now that he had a rabbit he wouldn't ask about the cat. Neither Peter nor Janie had the nerve to lie convincingly any more, but they'd have to try if need be.
Peter sat in his car outside the school playground and watched the children coming out. He picked out the Wilson twins, Mark and Jon, and his jaw tightened. Instinctively he was clenching his fists. Little bastards, he'd like to smash their bloody faces in and listen to them pleading for mercy; the older ones, too. That one he'd knocked off his bike had been lucky not to break an arm or a leg.
Where was Gavin? He was searching almost desperately now. A couple of dozen boys and girls, their ages ranging from eleven down to five; it was noticeable how they kept well clear of the bullying twins, glancing furtively after them, holding back in order to let them get on their way.
A sigh of relief escaped the writer's lips. There was Gavin coming through the rusted iron gates, Mr Hughes at his side, a lumbering figure that was intended to create a protective image. There was a condescending expression on the headmaster's florid features: Does this satisfy you, Mr Fogg? I'm pampering your weakling of a son, making sure the others don't call him names or hurt his feelings,
Peter wound down the window of the Saab. 'Good afternoon, Mr Hughes. I trust everything's OK.'
'Absolutely.' A smirk, the deep set eyes hooded by the thick brows. 'No trouble. I never thought there would be.'
Peter's gaze switched to Gavin; the boy met it for a moment, then dropped his eyes. Embarrassment, uneasiness. Because Hughes was there, and the other children had witnessed this protection by authority?
'Good. Thank you for your help, Mr Hughes. I trust that from now onwards there won't be any need for me to trouble you again.'
Tm sure there won't.' Another smirk: I wasn't pleased to help but I've been seen to do my duty.
'How's things?' Peter tried to sound light-hearted as he nosed the Saab out of the village and took the left fork for the steep climb up to Hodre.
'OK.' Gavin's tone was flat, expressionless, as though he was deliberately holding back something more than just a threatening flood of tears.
'The Wilsons didn't bother you?'
'No.' A lie that had to be forced and came out as a husky whisper.
'That's OK then.' Peter glanced sideways, looking for signs of bruising, but found none. Something had happened all right but it was best if it came out in its own good time. And if Hughes was covering anything up there would be one helluva rumpus; a letter to the education authorities amongst other things. Nobody pushed the Foggs about.
'Has Snowy turned up?'
'No, I'm afraid he hasn't. Probably still off courting somewhere. But we've got you a new pet, a rabbit. All nice and snug in its hut.'
Peter half-expected Gavin to say something like: 'I don't want a rabbit, I want Snowy.' The boy wasn't normally sulky but it was obvious that inside he was distraught. But he just turned and stared out of the window at the murky grey landscape that was darkening fast. Damn the low cloud, Peter thought. Wouldn't it ever lift? It was making life increasingly difficult, spawning its own atmosphere of foreboding—as though some unseen evil force had cast a mantle over the mountains to cloak the portents of doom.
'I don't think Gavin's at all well.' Janie came into the study shortly after nine o'clock, caught her husband in mid-sentence again and forced herself to wait. 'He says he's got stomach-ache, and he's never lied over ailments before. I think the best thing is to keep him off school tomorrow.'
'We'll see how he is in the morning. There's definitely something on his mind. I reckon the Wilsons have had a go at him but he's scared to say. I don't trust that fellow Hughes.'
'He swears they haven't been near him, but I know he's holding something back. Thank God I managed to get that rabbit, otherwise he'd've been really upset over the cat. God, he mustn't ever know the truth. Anyway, I'm going up to bed, I'm absolutely shattered.'
I'll be up later.' He turned back to his typewriter. 'I've just got to try and catch up otherwise I'm never going to get this book written.'
Janie went out into the hall, closing the door softly behind her. Peter's working days had extended into working nights. He just did not seem to sense that things were closing in on them, unknown forces that she couldn't explain.
Janie was still awake when Peter came to bed, but she feigned sleep and listened to him undressing and getting into bed beside her, his breathing gradually becoming deeper, until at last she knew he was asleep. She hadn't wanted another discussion, hadn't the energy to argue over what was going on here. Maybe if she took Gavin and went back to her parents then her husband would see sense.
She could not understand why she was still wide awake. At a quarter to ten it had been as much as she could do to mount the stairs and get undressed. Now her brain was working at full speed, going back over all the ghastly, inexplicable events, trying to find logical explanations, giving up, then trying again.
Her weariness returned gradually, almost soothingly, like a tranquilliser for easing mental agony. She began to doze, thinking about that rabbit, wondering if they ought to keep it indoors. At least that way it would be safe.
Somewhere a telephone was ringing. ,
She had got out of the habit of answering the phone because ninety-nine per cent of the calls were for Peter. Sometimes she just let it ring because she wasn't interested anyway.
Gradually full co
nsciousness returned. She opened her eyes and saw the room illuminated faintly by waning moonlight. Tomorrow she must make up those curtains to shut out the night and its multitude of lurking horrors.
She realised with a sudden sense of alarm that it was the phone downstairs. Not a dream. Not the television or the radio. Or a neighbour's phone. Theirs!
She sat up, starting to tremble. Peter was still sleeping soundly on his back with his mouth half-open making a senile son of snoring noise. He hadn't heard the telephone, and he wouldn't if she didn't wake him. These days he often slept through the alarm clock.
Her hand was on its way to shake his shoulder, but she snatched it back. She swallowed, feeling a constriction in her throat. Make somebody happy with a phone call. Not at this ungodly hour! It must be for her, because Peter didn't have any relatives and both his parents were dead. Oh God, maybe hers were as well, and that was what somebody was ringing to tell her!
Panic! She swung her legs off the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers, grabbed her housecoat and threw it around her shoulders.
A headlong dash took her out on to the landing. She scrabbled to find the light-switch; no moonlight here, just impenetrable hostile blackness. She hesitated at the head of the stairs and almost turned back. If I don't answer it I won't hear. . . Hear what'?
She clung to the rail, almost slipping on the sharp right-angled bend when she trod on the hem of her housecoat. Now she could see the telephone, an ivory monster that seemed to glow luminously, a thing that was alive and trembling with venom. Taunting her: I've got a message for you, Janie Fogg. She made it down to the hall. The ringing was loud, a harsh sound that hurt her ears. She could stop it by simply lifting up the receiver and dropping it back on its cradle, like slapping a naughty child to stop it from screaming. But that wasn't the answer. It would only ring again.
She stretched out a shaking hand, wondering if she had the strength to lift the plastic handset as high as her ear. Your father's dead, Janie—a sudden heart attack. Bad news, Janie—your mother was out walking the dog when a car mounted the pavement and . . . Her sister's voice, crying so you could hardly tell what she was saying, car crash . . . both dead . . . ' She grabbed the receiver and pressed it to her ear. Her lips moved. She intended to say, 'Janie Fogg speaking,' but no sound came. At least that damned ringing had stopped. No it hadn't, it was still vibrating in her brain, spreading to every nerve in her body.
