The Lurkers

by Guy N Smith

  'Christ alive!' Peter bent forward and looked up at the windscreen of the vehicle which had almost crushed them back into the ditch. 'What the devil does that bloke think he's doing driving round these lanes at that speed?'

  The other driver stared back, a hostile expression on his face. Aristocratic features, handsome in a wild son of way: silver-grey hair that flopped over his wide brow, a hooked nose that reminded Peter of a huge bird of prey that hunted in wild terrain, a regal flowing beard set against a background of skin tanned the colour of mahogany, eyes that bored into him and had him wanting to look away in case their owner read the darkest secrets of his mind. Dominant, physically powerful, arrogant.

  Only after he had noted all these details did Peter find himself looking at the vehicle. A Land Rover. There were hundreds of them in this pan of the country. Even humble smallholders seemed to be able to afford to run one. Four colours to choose from—green, blue, white or grey. This one was blue, a short wheelbase with a ragged canvas top, battered and muddy. Well-used over rugged land. Like going up that steep hillside to the stone circle in the blackness of night, thick fog throuring back the headlight beams so that the driver was unable to see more than a few yards ahead of him. A task that required nerves of steel—the kind of nerves a man like this would have!

  You're jumping to conclusions again, Fogg, he told himself. Now that the Wilsons and Bostock and Peters have been ruled out, you're looking for another scapegoat. He looked up again, met those steely eyes, and almost winced. Arrogance and a lot more besides—contempt.

  Peter had already reversed and got the Saab's nearside wheels right up on the verge until he felt the hedge scraping the paintwork. What the hell am I doing? It's that bugger who should be backing up!

  But the Land Rover was already forcing its way through, the rugged squat vehicle taking on the personality of its driver, eager to ride roughshod over anything that stood in its way. Then it was clear, picking up speed, its rear wheels spraying a parting shower of mud over the Saab: a final insult that might have been deliberate.

  'He was in a hurry, wasn't he, Dad?' Gavin was visibly shaken. 'He'd got more room than us to reverse. Couldn't wait a second.'

  'He just bulldozed us out of the way.' Peter was angry now, more at the way he had conceded ground than at the unknown driver's rudeness. But he couldn't get that Land Rover out of his mind. He saw it again, silhouetted against an orange smoky background, slinking away, its evil deed completed. Anonymous malevolence, a thing of the dark hours that came and went whilst others slept. The ultimate in cruelty, transporting men who knew no mercy, who disembowelled cats whilst they still lived, removed the corpses, then brought them back to burn in a nocturnal fire. Madness. But sane or mad, they lurked out there. Waiting. But for what?

  Peter shuddered. He understood how Janie felt. Last night it was a cat. Tonight it might be a human blood victim. Janie. Gavin. Himself. There was no reason, no way of knowing until it happened.

  And then it would be too late.

  9

  'It's damned queer, I'll grant you.' PC Calvert pursed his lips and shoved a manilla file into the top drawer of his desk. 'A Land Rover, you say. Almost everybody around here has a Land Rover, Mr Fogg. I don't suppose you managed to get the registration number?'

  'No chance. All we saw was a silhouette. By the way, we met a Land Rover on the way down this morning, a battered blue one with a canvas top driven by a fellow with long silver white hair and a beard. Arrogant devil, nearly rammed us on a bend.'

  'Oh, him!' Calvert laughed. 'I wouldn't worry too much about him, Mr Fogg. That's Tim Ruskin, owns most of the land up in the hills where you're living. Except Hodre, of course, and there's rumours that he's had a very generous offer for that turned down.'

  'Nevertheless, he's an ignorant bastard.'

  'Just his manner. Take a tip from me and don't cross him. Ah1 he's interested in is making money, and he'll go to unbelievable lengths to put an extra fiver in his pocket. He costs the government a fortune in fencing grants and the like, but half the time he doesn't fence to ministry specifications. He uses second-hand posts and old railway sleepers and charges 'em the full cost of new materials. Beats me why they've never rumbled him, but he's a big shot in these parts, maybe the biggest. Chairman of the parish council, too, and half the smaller farmers go around doffing their caps to him because if ever they put in for planning permission for anything, he's got a big pull with the district council. They reckon that if Tim Ruskin okays it you're in, but if you've crossed him over anything you're wasting your time. He's fenced most of his upland pastureland just like he's some kind of self-styled land baron, and I guess it rankles with him to have a pocket handkerchief like Hodre over which he's got no control bang in the middle of it.' The policeman laughed a trifle nervously.

  'That doesn't explain why the cat was removed after it had been killed then brought back and burned in the fire.,' Peter said. 'Or why it was killed in the first place.'

  'Damned queer.' Calvert repeated. 'But we've absolutely nothing to go on. Look, Mr Fogg, I'm on nights next week, panda patrol. I'll try and make a few sorties up in your area; ride round the lanes and sit and listen here and there. Who knows, if there is anything going on I might drop on it.1

  Of course there was something bloody funny going on. Peter groaned inwardly. A bloody campaign by loony Welsh fanatics that began amongst the kids in the school playground. 'OK, thanks.' He stood up. There wasn't much else he could say. 'My wife's nearly going out of her mind, I can tell you.'

  'It'll probably take her a while to settle.' Calvert opened the drawer, and brought out the file again. 'I know myself there's a hell of a difference between living in the city and living out here. But this bit of aggro will die down, I reckon. Whoever's doing it will get fed up soon.'

  'By the way1—Peter turned back at the door—'a huge herd of deer has turned up around Hodre. I saw 'em this morning, grazing in the fields adjoining the forestry.'

  'They always come in the autumn.' The policeman was flipping over a pile of looseleaf pages. 'Guess that's something that's been happening for centuries, long before the Commission planted the big wood. Starts about the middle of November, and by Christmas there's a huge build-up of herds which have spent the summer in the lowlands. Almost like something was calling 'em up there, a sort of Pied Piper, if you know what I mean.'

  Peter didn't know what the other meant, but it made him feel uneasy. Something inexplicable—like everything else about Hodre and its surrounding hills.

  Janie had already left when Peter arrived back home. As he walked in the house he noted that the kitchen sink was piled high with dirty crockery. She hadn't even stayed to wash-up before she left. As though she couldn't wait to get away.

  Hell, she was working herself up for some kind of nervous breakdown. Perhaps it would be better if she did go and stay with her parents for a while. But it wouldn't solve the problem in the long term. They had two choices: they either stayed and fought against this persistent unknown foe or else they got out altogether. Surrendered.

  He seated himself at his desk. The same sheet of quarto had been hi the typewriter for three days now, waiting for a single paragraph. Maybe just one sentence would suffice. He furrowed his brow. In a way it was like cross-country running. You struck a piece of flat terrain and made good time. Then you came to an unexpected obstacle, a wide water-jump maybe that you knew you couldn't get across so you had to find a way round. So you lost all the time you'd gained.

  He stared at the typing and saw one or two minor changes he would have to make in the second draft. He wondered why they had not occurred to him in the first place, why he hadn't got it right then, why it took him a long time to spot things that were right under his nose. Like Hodre. God, what the hell was going on here? Could it be Ruskin, conducting a campaign akin to that of the Wilsons? But if the landowner scared the Foggs out, Blackstone would only find another tenant. Unless every tenant was worn down until the place just couldn't
be let any more and Blackstone sold out. It seemed an awful lot of trouble to go to for a few acres of almost barren grassland that wouldn't support more than a couple of dozen sheep. Still, Ruskin was an odd one and he didn't like being crossed; one only had to look into his eyes to realise that.

  Peter gave a sigh of frustration. Problems everywhere. This book for a start was becoming one gigantic headache. Literally. Sod it, the relentless throbbing was starting up again inside his skull, as though minute hammers were pounding against his temples. He hoped he wasn't getting a migraine. Maybe he'd better shelve the book for today, give it some more thought, try again tomorrow. Damn it, no. Always tomorrow. He'd never finish it that way. Skip that chapter ending for now, start the next one and come back to it later.

  He rolled the paper out of the machine and flipped a fresh top copy off the pile in the Croxley box. His hands were slightly unsteady as he lined up the carbon and the blank paper, then wound it into the old Imperial. Three capitals, double spaced—T-W-O. He hit the keys hard with just one finger, giving himself a kind of breathing space whilst he mulled over the introductory sentence; like endings, beginnings had to be punchy too. And right now the words he grasped for were eluding him, jack-o'-lanterns dodging away from him, hiding in the mists of his brain, mocking him.

  He slumped back in his chair. If he wasn't careful he'd start smoking again; if there had been a cigarette handy he would have used it. He glanced at his watch: eleven-thirty. He wondered if Janie had left him any lunch. Probably not, because he usually preferred to cut himself a sandwich when she was away.

  He had almost decided upon a sandwich; not that he was hungry but it would give him the feeling of doing something constructive and that was very necessary right now. A couple of aspirin, too, might help.

  Then the telephone in the hall rang—a sound that electrified the nerves, a ringing that was almost a groan, as though the bell was under strain and might peter out at any second. Perhaps the power was down, reduced voltage for some reason.

  He got up slowly, knowing he didn't want to answer it. It was probably Tolson, his publisher's editorial director, a real pain in the arse, renowned for chopping and changing. He commissioned a book on the strength of a four-page synopsis without really giving it much thought, then got into a sudden panic about six weeks later and came up with a host of ridiculous 'suggestions', and of course the writer had to implement them. The fact that he was already forty thousand words into the first draft didn't matter a damn. Peter had heard all this from other writers; You were luckv, old son—a first book accepted on a completed manuscript. You just wait until he commissions something.

  This could be it; Tolson deciding he had to justify his position.

  Or, he realised with a faint sense of foreboding that passed as quickly as it came, it could be the nocturnal hoaxer again. Well/he'd soon be dealt with: Fuck off, you bastard, I'm far too busy to waste time listening to your asthmatic wheezings.

  Peter's fingers closed over the handset, lifted it off its cradle and killed the laboured ringing.

  It could be Mr Hughes: Gavin's not well. I'd be glad if you could fetch him home.

  But he had to stop speculating and find out who it was.

  'Peter Fogg speaking.'

  'Is that Mr Fogg of Hodre?'

  That's right.'

  This is Llanrhayader General Hospital Accident Unit here, Mr Fogg.'

  'Yes . . . ?' A sense of apprehension knotted Peter's stomach, trying to figure out a hundred reasons in a split second why they should be phoning him.

  Tm afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr Fogg—'

  His mulch of intestines was compressed into something the size of a golf ball and twice as hard.

  'Your wife's been in a car accident, Mr Fogg. I'm afraid she's suffered multiple injuries and is still in the operating theatre. She hasn't regained consciousness yet . . . '

  Oh, Merciful God! How? Why? Surely you're mistaken. Not my Janie. I?$ impossible. I refuse to believe it!

  On rare occasions, escalating panic can be transformed into numbing calm and logic as the brain processes its own tran-quilisers. And that was what happened to Peter Fogg in the blinding two or three seconds when he almost fainted. He started to go down into a dark abyss, then came straight back up.

  Til be there as soon as I can.' He dropped the receiver back and started checking that he had the car keys in the pocket of his jeans. Llanrhayader The name was familiar; a large market town somewhere in the country. Brain and body had co-ordinated into ice-cold efficiency, enabling him to find the road atlas amidst the other books on the shelf and locate index and page in a matter of seconds.

  Thirty miles. A B-road most of the way until it joined a main A-road about five miles from the town. What the hell was Janie doing out there? Probably some complex emergency ambulance coverage. But this was no time to challenge the inefficiencies of the system.

  He slid behind the wheel of the Saab and thanked some unknown deity that the engine fired first time, then did a three-point turn that had the tyres spinning and showering mud up the hedge. Keep calm, you can't a/ford to kill yourself; Gavin. mil need you now more than ever. A dilemma as he slowed on the acute bend and prayed again that Ruskin wouldn't be around the corner in that battered old Land Rover: maybe he ought to call in at the school and pick up Gavin. No, a hospital accident unit was no place to take a young boy whose mother was ... He didn't dare try and think what the injuries might be. She wouldn't be in there if she wasn't one helluva a mess. No, leave the boy and phone Hughes from Llanrhayader; get him to break the news. Make some arrangements for Gavin to be looked after until he got back. Got to get there first.

  The road was winding beyond Woodside, not so hilly, but he had to watch the bends as it followed a wide valley. The weak sunshine was making one last attempt to display the fading autumnal tints before the winter winds ruthlessly stripped the last of the leaves.

  Suddenly he braked hard; a trailer-load of manure was being pulled by an old tractor with an upright exhaust that belched out clouds of black diesel fumes. No number plate in sight. As Peter blared his horn, he saw the driver trying to light a pipe and steer precariously with one hand at the same time so that the trailer veered out into the middle of the road. Driving without due care and attention; no rear registration plate, probably no front one either. The bastard ought to be reported. Peter flashed his lights. No reaction. Maybe the driver didn'r even have a mirror.

  Another bend; down to 15 mph.

  He took a chance: pulled out and accelerated hard. If you hit anything you might as well hit it hard, he reasoned. You stupid old hayseed bastard, you don't have a front number plate either. He was sweating as he pulled back in; he'd given up praying. If his number came up there was nothing he could do about it.

  A clear road ahead. That cross-country run again; he'd lost time so he was trying to make it up until he hit the next obstacle. Sixty-five mph, and knocking hell out of the brake-shoes on the bends.

  He glanced at his wrist-watch: five-past-twelve. The phone call had been an eternity ago; probably the watch had slopped.

  A green signpost with yellow lettering: LLANRHAYADER 5 made Peter swing off to the left, his foot slammed right down on the throttle.

  Llanrhayader was bigger than he had expected. Its long winding approach with grey stone buildings on one side of the road starkly contrasted with rows of red-brick council houses on the other. There was a level-crossing but the barriers were elevated, then a panda crossing with the lights just turning to red and some youths in ragged denims sauntering idly across the road, as if with deliberate arrogance: We hope your wife dies before you get there.

  He shot forward with a screech of tyres as the amber light began flashing, then braked again less than a hundred yards further on. This time it was main traffic lights, a queue of a dozen or more vehicles with a large baker's van at the head which would slow the getaway.

  A sudden thought threatened to bring back his panic: he'd found
Llanrhayader—but where was the hospital? He was winding down the window to shout across to some pedestrians on the opposite pavement when he saw the white and black sign arrowed to the left: Accident Unit. A sense of relief sent a little shiver up his spine and knotted his stomach again. He looked at his watch again. Twelve-fifteen. It hadn't stopped after all.

  His mouth was dry as he cut into the left-hand stream of traffic. He'd broken speed limits and other traffic regulations to make record time, but now he was within minutes of his destination, he somehow wished that he hadn't got there so soon. Because he was afraid to face stark reality.

  The hospital was a combination of the old and the new; a long low extension had been built on to the existing grey stone austere edifice. A spacious area of black tarmac at the side was marked out into parking lots, and a thirty yard stretch in front of the main entrance bearing three foot capital letters screamed, AMBULANCES ONLY.

  Peter didn't give a toss for ambulances or any other vehicles right then; he pulled up to the main steps and was out of the Saab almost before the engine had died. He hit the heavy glass doors at a run, not caring that he was starting to panic. Just cut the officialdom. Take me to my wife.

  'Can I help you, sir?' A small dark-haired girl looked up from a window marked Reception., a half-smile but no expression of surprise on her pen features. Maybe, Peter thought, most husbands dashed in here like this when they got a crisis, call.

  'My wife . . . ' His voice quavered. 'Injured. I got a call . . . '

  'What name, sir?' A lilting local accent.

  'Fogg. Jane. Mine's Peter.'

  She consulted a clipboard. Oh, for fuck's sake cut out the red lapel She shook her head slowly. Peter clutched at the ledge. Through a red haze that he knew would terminate in a faint this time, he saw her lips starting to move. Ok God, no!