by Guy N Smith
Outside he could hear the wind, a soft soughing noise that increased in volume even as he listened, buffeted the door as though it was trying to get in. Maybe it had got up earlier and he hadn't noticed it. It was a lot colder too, icy draughts seeming to come from a score of different directions. Suddenly autumn had become winter.
He had a sudden feeling that he wanted to dash outside, hurl himself behind the wheel of the Saab and drive like hell to put as many miles as possible between Hodre and himself.
Your phone's dead. The car might not start! Don't go outside, because you don't know what's lurking out there.
It was all in the mind. He was tired, over-worked. He knew there was nothing there that could possibly hurt him,
All the same he checked the doors and windows and went upstairs without even finishing his coffee. His fears would run riot if he didn't check them: his escalating terror; claustrophobia because he was trapped; agoraphobia because he wouldn't dare go out anyway. In the end he would go mad.
Peter flung himself down on the bed and tried to tell himself once again that it was all in the mind. But true or false, he was trapped here. Alone.
Peter had never found sleeping alone conducive to a good night's rest. He tossed and turned in the crumpled sheets, somehow dragging the blankets up from the bottom so that a cold draught from the ill-fitting window chilled his feet. He dozed fitfully, stretched out an arm that was habitually trained to encircle a sleeping partner and groaned to himself when he found that there was nobody there beside him.
It was morning; it had to be, because the room was filled with brilliant sunlight. He must have slept late. He dragged himself up into a sitting position, opened his eyes and immediately blinked them shut again, tensing because he still had the feeling that something was wrong, just like last night when he'd started to phone Janie.
It was too bright. Late November morning sunlight never reached this degree of intensity. He squinted, the glare hurting his eyeballs, forcing him to turn away momentarily, but that one glimpse had been enough. h was still dark outside and this dazzling light was artificial.'
Forcing his confused brain to work he slid out of bed, groped his way towards the window. Headlights, that's what it was, a vehicle parked in the lane outside with its lights on full beam and directed up at the bedroom window. A Land Rover maybe! He couldn't figure out how the driver had got the necessary elevation.
Then suddenly it was pitch dark again. Silence, not even an engine ticking over idly. Even the wind seemed to have dropped.
Peter reached the window and stood there looking out into the blackness of a mountain night. He saw only shooting lights like the magnificence of an aurora borealis as his eyes rebelled against the alternating brilliance and darkness. No, he hadn't dreamed it, because he could still feel the searing pain in his pupils, and see a kaleidoscope of colours that threatened to blind him.
And then the light was back again, a single white beam that hit him with the force of a water cannon, and made him stagger back and cover his eyes with his hands. Christ alive, what the hell was going on out there?
He stood back and forced himself to look. The light wasn't coining from the adjoining lane, that was a certainty. It came from somewhere on the fields above—which explained how it came to be directed down into the bedroom. A stationery vehicle (a Land Rover?) was parked downhill. It was deliberate aggro to stop him from getting to sleep, a continuation of everything that had happened so far. Wear him down, drive him out.
Peter found his clothes before the light went out again and the darkness plunged back, and struggled into them with an urgency fired by anger. Those bastards were back again, the ones who had killed the cat and the rabbit, and burned the trees in the circle. Well, spooks didn't use Land Rovers or high-powered lights! He'd go out there, take a look and possibly get the number of the Land Rover. That was all he needed: some evidence so that the police could take action and put a stop to it once and for all.
He grabbed the duffle coat on his way out, noticing that the atmosphere didn't feel cold any more. A typical still November night. He carried his torch but he didn't use it, not wanting to give his position away. The light would come on again for sure before long, but in the meantime he was familiar enough with the sheep track that led up towards the stone circle.
A strange sensation of timelessness in a dark empty world, walking through eternity, a black void which went on and on, that this was how it would be forever. Maybe it was a dream and he'd wake up and—
A sudden shaft of white light blasted the darkness, a beam that came from beyond the fire-devastated trees and swung across the night sky like a searchlight seeking out enemy which looked down on the old druid circle when the landscape was plunged back into darkness.
He found himself crouching, moving forwards on tip-toe, the only sound the thumping of his heart and the racing of his pulses. A brief moment of fear, but he swamped it with anger. Whatever these people were doing, whoever they were, they were in for one helluva shock!
He had just topped the rise when the hillside was lit up again, this time with all the brightness of seaside illuminations. He saw every detail with the clarity of an artist's sketch laid out before him: a stark black and white landscape and the horrific scarred pines seeming to move, to beckon him, the dark mass of the forest above an army on the march, the forces of evil gathering to launch an assault now that the apocalypse was nigh.
Not just one light now; two, three. Criss-crossed beams latticed the pastureland, terrifying in their total silence like a wartime commando manoeuvre. Peter shielded his eyes and tried to pinpoint the source of the lights, but beyond them was a thick curtain of darkness.
He advanced, smelling the rancid odour of dead ash and feeling it crumbling beneath his feet. His brain was working fast, outlining a plan of action. Where there were lights there were men; he must single one out, approach furtively and surprise him. Or should he go back and call the police? No, the phone was dead and if he used the Saab the men would hear it and disappear whence they had come. There was only one course of action open to Peter, except for skulking in the cottage—and he wasn't going to do that. There were a few scores to be settled and right now he was in the mood for doing just that.
He could sense rather than hear somebody moving about, a kind of stirring of the atmosphere that had him glancing around trying to figure out from which direction it came. There was total blackness again, which didn't help. Peter found himself crouching down, trying to hold his breath. Waiting.
Then something else occurred to him, something which he had previously overlooked in his search for for a reason behind these goings-on. A black-magic covern! Of course, it had to be that. The setting was right: a remote druid circle that had seen atrocities in the past. Two animal sacrifices. Now they were up to something else.
His mouth was very dry. Not that he believed in all this occult nonsense, but these people could be very dangerous. They needed to scare off the Foggs so they could continue with their rituals in peace. Mentally Peter found himself apologising to Ruskin, and to Bostock and Peters as well, although not wholly to the Wilsons after what they'd done to Gavin. But they certainly weren't the kind to get mixed up in this kind of hocus-pocus. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.
The coven had done their best to scare Peter tonight. Maybe they knew Janie and Gavin had already left and this was a determined effort to send him in their wake. Cut the telephone wire, shine powerful hand-lamps, the kind that worked off a heavy-duty battery and had a range of several hundred yards, into his bedroom, and if that didn't work . . .
One light came on about two hundred yards beyond the circle, then went off again. Another much nearer replaced it for a few seconds, then it went back to total darkness. Some kind of signalling?
Peter's eyes were flashing again in the dark, a blaze of painful colours. His head was aching with a dull throbbing that had him wincing. Then he heard something, a definite sound this time, maybe a
foot crunching on dry stone and ash. Whiding, torch at the ready, thumb on the push-button switch, he hesitated because one flash of light would give him away.
And then the light hit him, a blinding devastating white beam that caught him full in the face, making him stagger back and throw up his arms to cover his face. He heard his own torch fall and was groping on the ground for it when his skull seemed to explode in a myriad of stars.
Lights of ail colours, flashing fluorescent daggers, stabbed into his brain and brought a cry of agony from his lips. The blaze of brightness began to dim, the pain escalated and then numbed. Fading, red blending in to blackness.
Then nothing.
12
Peter regained consciousness in stages. His first recollection was one of waking and staring up into a darkened room, feeling ill in the same way as when he'd had measles as a boy, with a permanent headache, afraid of the light because it hurt his eyes.
Where the hell was he? This wasn't the bedroom and neither was he lying on a bed. A hard surface gouged his back and had him wriggling about in an attempt to find a more comfortable place. Sharp stones and ash clung to his skin, and made him cough. Then he remembered.
Men with powerful lamps; they'd known he would come, had spotted him all the way, their lights flashing to lure him where they wanted him, right here in this ancient druid circle, their killing ground.
He sat up. God, his head was threatening to split in two. He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. Apart from the thumping headache and nausea, he was all right. They had not wanted to do any more than rough him up this time. Next time . . .
He groped around and after some time located his fallen torch. He checked it; it worked. Almost certainly his attackers had gone. Nevertheless he swung the beam round in a circle just to make sure.
The descent back to the cottage slow. Waves of dizziness passed over him, and his greatest fear was that he might fall and go rolling right down the slope. In the light of his torch he saw the sharp rocks that protruded out of the ground as though they were waiting to spear a falling body, to batter and crush it to death.
At last he made it to the college, lurched inside and bolted the door behind him. Jesus, the light was painful. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the kitchen sink: dishevelled, his features coated with grey ash, but no sign of any physical hi jury. He sank down into the big leather armchair. All he needed was rest; he'd be all right then. After that he'd speak with PC Calvert. This business had progressed beyond the slaughter of domestic animals and malicious phone calls. GBH was the official police term for it. The law would have to do something now.
Peter slept the sleep of the exhausted and awoke stiff but refreshed some time after nine o'clock the next morning. He washed, cleaned up and made some coffee. Outside, weak sunlight flooded the hills almost as though it was an apology for the past few days of continual low cloud. Not a breath of wind, so peaceful.
He stood looking out of the window for some minutes, idly wondering where the big herd of deer was; probably over on Ruskin's land. Those lights last night had surely scared the hell out of them. And it was likely to happen again unless . . .
But he couldn't stop here all day wondering about what might and what might not happen. The first thing was a trip down to Woodside, to report that the telephone was out of order and call on the police. He wouldn't get any writing done today but there was always tomorrow.
Peter stepped outside and locked the door behind him. He looked up once more towards the forest; a few sheep grazing—Ruskin's strays, probably—but still no sign of the deer.
The Saab was parked on the wide verge adjoining the entrance to Hodre, a dignified example of the car industry in Sweden. But suddenly it didn't look dignified any more. At first glance it was reminiscent of a sleek racehorse that has gone lame and been put to graze in a sanatorium enclosure. Pitiful, deprived of the power and speed with which its owner has always associated it.
Peter stared in disbelief, the sudden shock of what he saw causing the throbbing pain in his head to start up again. The Saab was a dead thing, almost dovm to its chassis in the long rough grass, all four tyres flat!
Peter did not curse. He had run out of steam, barely had the strength left to muster a curse. Despair, knowing there was no way he was going to drive the car down to Woodside, the futility of it all striking him like the karate chop of the previous night. He closed his eyes, wanting to open them again and discover that he wasn't a writer, after all; that it had all been a pipe-dream and he was back in Perrycroft, a nine-till-five man with no problems, a wife and son who hadn't left home. But it was real enough. He was a writer, a self-styled recluse in a back-of-beyond place known as Hodre, and his only means of transport had four slashed tyres.
He moved forward slowly. A cursory glance at the Dun-lops as he passed confirmed that they had all been ribboned with some sharp instrument. Without a pause, he embarked upon the hour-long trek which would take him to Woodside.
He shook his head to try and clear it, but started off the kaleidoscopic lights again.
Peter wondered how any literate person could write so slowly. PC Calvert seemed to concentrate on forming each letter with great precision, going back to dot an i every so often. A statement, Peter had always thought, was a kind of precis of a verbal recital of events. But it was as though the officer was determined to write a novel on the recent happenings at Hodre.
'Now if you'll just sign here for me, Mr Fogg . . . ' Peter scrawled his signature, not bothering to read through what the policeman had written. So far, this meeting had taken the best part of an hour and neither of them seemed to have reached any kind of conclusion.
'Good.' Calvert took his papers and ballpoint back and dropped them in a filing basket. 'I'll have a word with the chief about this, as well as making a few enquiries of my own.'
'But what the hell d'you think is going on?' Peter snapped. 'Apart from anything to scare us away from Hodre—and having already succeeded as far as my wife and son are concerned—what were all these searchlights in the night?'
'Lampers, I'd say.' Calvert stroked his chin thoughtfully.
'Lampers?'
'Poachers who work with high-powered battery lamps and lurchers after rabbits and hares. I reckon the lads were giving Hodre the once-over last night and you were foolish enough to go out there.'
'You mean Peters and Bostock Peter tensed. That pair who poach at night and have already done time for beating up a gamekeeper? Just like they did me!'
'No-o-o.' Calvert pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Not them, but I'll definitely check on them. Lamping isn't their style. They use long-nets: nets about fifty yards long, which they stake out, and then use the dogs to drive the rabbits and hares into the net. The only light they ever use is the moon. Occasionally they use ferrets in the warrens, sometimes snares. But never guns or lamps, take it from me.'
'Just suppose'—Peter leaned forward—'that these chaps last night weren't poachers at all. There have been two atrocious animal killings, like sacrifices. Black magic covens are springing up all over the place.'
'Mostly around the cities.' Calvert shook his head slowly; he was a countryman himself and the answer had to lie in the field he knew best. 'I'd say it was poachers, Mr Fogg. Rabbits fetch one-fifty a couple in the market, and anybody who knows what he's about with a lamp and a lurcher can bag forty or fifty in a night. I don't reckon there's any link between last night and those phone calls, maybe not even the animal killings either. I reckon you've stirred up a mixture of poachers, Welsh nationalists, and hooligans. Anyway we'll patrol the lanes up by you for a week or so . . . '
Which you've already bloody well promised to do and haven't, Peter thought.
I'll give you a lift back up to Hodre.' Calvert rose to his feet and picked up his cap. 'I've got to go and call on a farmer over the other side who's had some sheep savaged by dogs, and I can make a detour to drop you off. In all probability Barratts will be up there by now with four new t
yres for your car, and the telephone company doesn't waste time fixing telephones in this part of the world; they know only too well how folks living in remote areas might need 'em in an emergency.'
A little shiver ran up Peter's spine. He just hoped that both Barratts Garage and British Telecom were as efficient as PC Calvert claimed. Emergencies were becoming all too frequent.
As the police panda van slowed alongside Hodre, Peter saw that the Saab was still squatting awkwardly on its rims. Neither was there any sign of the familiar bright yellow van that heralded the arrival of the telephone engineer. Peter groaned inwardly, consoling himself with the thought that in rural areas services were that much slower, but they got there in the end.
'I expect they will be along soon.' Calvert seemed to read the other's impatience. 'Looks like it's going to snow before long.'
This time Peter groaned audibly. Away to the west, above the most distant beacons, leaden cloud formations were building up. He flipped the catch and swung the door open. 'Maybe it won't come to anything much.'
'Maybe and maybe not,' PC Calvert muttered, but his expression said that it probably would. 'Anyway, I must get a move on. And don't forget, Mr Fogg, don't get going outside if you see any lamps again. I'll probably have a run up this way later tonight anyway.'
'Probably' being the operative word, Peter thought as he watched the constable drive away. Something soft and feathery brushed against his cheek and lodged on the lapel of his duffle coat. Snowflakes! The wind was icy, strengthening, and the far-off clouds seemed nearer than he had at first thought, lighter fore-runners stretching almost to the edge of the big wood, the tentacles of a giant snow-laden monster.
Peter went inside and picked up the phone, but he knew it was a waste of time. There was not so much as a crackle, even when he rattled the cradle. The Rayburn had gone out. He'd light it later, and in the meantime he'd keep his coat on. Hell, he couldn't stop indoors; he'd go mad and his head needed some fresh air to clear it. He had meant to buy a bottle of aspirin in the village but somehow it had slipped his mind—which wasn't surprising; it seemed to take him all his time to keep sane these days.
