He had to stay focused. Avery had no illusions about his future. He knew he could not stay on the run for long—especially after what he had planned. While he had worked so hard and waited so long for his legitimate release, he had no experience of—or desire for—the life of a fugitive. After the event, his life would effectively be over. His only objective now was to stay in control long enough to make his fleeting freedom worthwhile.
Slowly he felt the rush subside, and that control return to him. He knew he would have to be on his guard; the thrill of the moor alone was almost overwhelming. Coupled with the memory of this overgrown track and the possibilities that lay ahead, the sheer effort it took to remain calm brought Avery out in a sweat. His arm tingled and ached where the mystery groove had opened his flesh, and he felt a little light-headed but he ignored it; he thought it looked worse than it was and he didn’t care if he was wrong; it wasn’t going to stop him. Nothing would.
He started up the hill again. His thoughts battered noisily at the smoked glass of his mind, desperate to be set free and run on ahead like yapping puppies. Avery was almost deafened by the ruckus. He took a deep breath and started to count backwards from a thousand.
982 … 981 … 980 … 979 …
He stopped and started again from the top.
So, concentrating on getting the numbers right, Avery managed to stay in control all the way to Blacklands.
He found the mound easily.
There was mist in the valley below, hiding Shipcott, but up here the air was clear and might soon be bright.
The last of the night had faded and left a pale, blank sky into which the sun crept lazily from under the horizon.
Avery climbed to the top of the mound and looked down.
The excitement bubbled up in him and he clenched his knuckles white and ground them into his own thighs to stay sane for a little while longer.
He wasn’t sure he could do it.
He whined and bit his lip. His breathing was jagged in his chest and his heart bumped loudly in his ears and sinuses.
Right here. He was right here. A place he thought he might never be again. Everything was worth it. If they rushed him now and dragged him off the moor on a bed of fire, it would have been worth it—just to stand here and smell the wet heather and the dank earth beneath it.
Avery tasted blood where his lip leaked into his mouth. He didn’t know how he would stop his head bursting with need, but he knew he had to. He wanted this feeling to last as long as he could make it; knew it could get even better if he were very, very lucky.
But right now he had to keep a lid on things. He had to get a grip.
He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the overwhelming visual stimulation.
Don’t blow it.
Don’t blow it.
Don’t blow it.
Whining, sweating, and trembling with effort, Avery slowly regained dominion over Exmoor and his own body.
His whining tapered, he stopped gasping for every breath; his fists loosened, leaving half-moon cuts in his palms like little stigmata.
He felt the dawn air filling him to bursting with life and self-possession. The sun made him shiver with anticipation, while the first skylark sang his praises.
When he finally opened his eyes, he felt like god.
Calm. Patient. Controlled.
Powerful. Vengeful.
He spread a plastic bag in a patch of wet white heather and sat gently, feeling the moor embrace him like an old lover.
And an hour later, when the boys rose up towards him through the mist, Avery’s eyes blurred with the sheer beauty of it all.
They were like angels emerging from a cloud so he could welcome them into heaven.
Chapter 37
“HELLO,” SAID LEWIS.
“Hello,” said Arnold Avery, serial killer.
Steven said nothing. What could he say? Hey, Lewis, don’t talk to him—he murdered my uncle Billy …
Anything Steven said right now would require so much explanation, and so many questions from Lewis, that he wouldn’t be able to think straight. And something told him that this was a point in his life when straight thinking was going to be critical.
He’d already nearly given himself away, but had looked across the heather just in time, before Avery could see the shock of recognition on his face.
Now, as he regarded the moor with eyes that saw nothing but dead newsprint children, Steven’s mind spun in pointless overlapping circles. A Venn diagram of confusion. How could this be? This was impossible. Arnold Avery was in prison, not here. Here was where Steven was supposed to be, not Avery. Possibilities far crazier than mere escape raced through his head—a dream, a drug-induced hallucination, a Hollywood body swap, a reality TV show to gauge the reaction of boys meeting their worst nightmare. It took half a second that felt like half a lifetime before he came to the idea of escape and settled there uneasily. It was the worst of the options.
Gradually the wild rush of adrenaline subsided to manageable levels. His breathing was still uncertain but at least he wasn’t about to soil himself. He glanced back at Avery. It was definitely him. He questioned himself closely on this point—wanting to have made a mistake—but he was sure. Steven supposed that the context and the occasion had primed him to recognize the killer, even though Avery was the last person he’d expected to see.
Still, he had the advantage: Avery didn’t know Steven and therefore had no reason to believe that Steven would know him. If he was to maintain that advantage, he had to act normal.
Taking a deep, shuddery breath, Steven forced his head back around and blinked at the sheer reality of the man who had filled his life for so long, right here, sat above them on a bed of less common white heather, his forearms resting casually on his knees, his jeans rising from his black work boots enough so that Steven could see his cheap blue cotton socks.
He stared at Avery’s socks and felt an odd sense of wonder.
Socks were so normal. So mundane. How could someone who pulled on socks in the morning be a serial killer? Socks were not hard or dangerous. Socks were funny; foot mittens, that’s what socks were. They made a knobbly hinge of your toes and became comical sock puppets. Surely anyone who wore socks could not truly be a threat to him or anyone else?
Steven realized they were both looking at him while he stared at the socks. Lewis looked puzzled and Avery quirked an amused eyebrow at him, as if they shared a secret.
Which they did, of course.
Steven reddened. He had to act normal. If Avery had any idea he knew who he was …
Steven didn’t finish the thought; it was too frightening.
The silence was a physical thing between them. Avery was used to silence and Steven was reluctant to puncture the stillness until he had some idea of what he might say.
So it was left to Lewis to take the lead, as always.
“Nice day.” The perennial favorite of walkers.
Avery nodded slowly. “So far.”
Steven shivered and Lewis frowned at him, like he was somehow letting the side down.
“We’re digging,” offered Lewis, jutting his jaw at Steven’s spade.
“Oh yes?” inquired Avery coolly. “What for?”
Lewis had talked himself into a little corner. On any other day he’d have told the stranger, Steven knew. He’d have blabbed and then watched the stranger’s reaction; if it had been awe, Lewis would have taken credit for the joint operation; if it had been disgust, Lewis would have rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at him.
But because this was their first time back together—and because a strange, unspoken shift had taken place in their relationship—Lewis seemed uncertain of whether to reveal their true mission.
Lewis looked at Steven and was surprised to see his friend was even more pale than usual. Steven looked sick. But still, it was Steven who now picked up the conversational baton.
“Orchids.”
Avery only raised his brow again. This time Lewis al
most joined him. Steven ignored it. “Sell them to the garden center.”
Avery eyed him carefully. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Yes.”
Lewis shot a worried look at Steven and then at the man, but the man didn’t look too perturbed by the revelation.
In fact, he shrugged and almost smiled—just the tips of prominent teeth breaking out briefly before being recaptured by his ruby lips.
“Oh well,” he said.
There was another lumpy silence.
“Are there any round here?”
“Any what?” said Lewis.
“Any—” Avery cleared his throat politely, his fist in front of his mouth. “Any orchids.”
Lewis flickered a sidelong glance at Steven. He’d got them into this—he could bloody well get them out.
“No,” said Steven, scanning the ground. “We should go.”
“Don’t.”
Both boys looked up at the man. Lewis thought that was strange—saying “Don’t” like that. Most people you met on the moors couldn’t wait to have you walk away and disappear and restore their illusion of splendid isolation. But this man said “Don’t” as if he really didn’t want them to leave.
Lewis was not a sensitive boy, but he felt the first vague itch that told him something was not quite right.
Arnold Avery had recognized SL immediately—the shape of him—from the photograph.
Now SL stood before him with his anorak tied around his whippety waist, his bony arms projecting from a red T-shirt, his dark hair poorly home-cut, his body turned slightly away.
On the back of his T-shirt was the word LAMB. The boy’s name was S. Lamb.
Lamb.
He had to keep from laughing.
Now S. Lamb and his more robust friend were both looking at him because he’d said “Don’t” in that stupid, needy way.
A flash of Mason Dingle and a bawling child. Avery was angry with himself, but controlled it so it wouldn’t show.
He had to be careful. There were two of them. S. Lamb had a spade slung over his shoulder. They were older than most of the others. Bigger than he remembered children to be. He’d said “Don’t” and both of them had looked up in surprise.
He had to be careful.
He had to smile.
So he did, and saw the rounder boy’s face relax immediately. He was not unattractive.
S. Lamb glanced at him but still looked pinched and wary. Understandable, thought Avery—a strange man on the moors; a boy should be on his guard. He was proud of SL’s open suspicion, and felt a little better about the way he’d been played by a boy. At least it wasn’t a stupid boy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s Tim.” He looked pointedly at the bigger boy until he cracked.
“I’m Lewis. He’s Steven.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Steven Lamb. Avery dared only a brief glance and nod at Steven Lamb because he did not want to telepathically transmit the images in his head—images of Steven Lamb’s dark eyes bulging from their sockets in terror; of his own fingers around Steven Lamb’s slender throat as the blood rose like geysers in both of them, but for different reasons; of a scant but ironic map of Exmoor with the initials SL forever beside WP.
“I have sandwiches.” Avery reached past the towrope to get them and added, more casually: “If you want.”
Lewis did want.
Of course.
Steven watched Lewis close the distance between himself and Arnold Avery. He held his breath as Lewis reached for the sandwich. His warning shout caught in his throat as Lewis’s hand almost touched Avery’s.
Nothing happened except that Lewis got a sandwich. Steven grunted in relief.
Avery looked at him now, holding out another sandwich.
This was it. This was the moment when Steven had to decide. To take the killer’s sandwich, or to fling aside his spade, turn, and run back down the moor to home.
It was Barnstaple all over again. Without Lewis, he could have run. Taken Avery by surprise and outdistanced him. The man was fifteen feet away, and seated. Steven could have thirty yards on him before he stood up and started running. He was fast and had no doubt that fear would make him faster.
But with Lewis? Lewis was eating the man’s sandwich; if he suddenly yelled a warning and turned tail, Lewis would be confused. He wouldn’t run. And even if he did run, he wouldn’t realize he was running for his life. The very act of running would tell Avery that Steven had recognized him.
Even if Avery didn’t catch him, he’d catch Lewis for sure. And Steven couldn’t leave Lewis in the hands of a serial killer.
Steven throbbed with guilt at his own stupidity. He had baited a trap for Avery and fallen into it himself. Now he felt wholly responsible for Lewis’s safety as well as his own.
No, running was not an option.
So Steven willed his legs to move, forced his hands to reach, ordered his lips to mumble “Thank you” as he took the other sandwich from the man he now knew planned to kill him.
Chapter 38
THE SANDWICH WAS CHEESE AND TOMATO. STEVEN GRIMACED AT the first bite but swallowed anyway, not wanting to provoke Avery.
Lewis’s defenses were down now that he was eating again. He told Avery about the moor—making up what he wasn’t sure of—and Avery nodded and listened and asked pertinent questions.
Steven was dimly aware of Lewis swelling proudly under Avery’s attention. Some part of him felt sick at the ease with which Avery made Lewis relax and open up to him.
But most of him—all the important parts—were churning with a million flashing images: biro crosses on a map; a single white pixel of buckteeth; the Lego space station in the gloomy blue bedroom; the smell of the earth; the taste of it in his mouth; the tooth wobbling in the sheep’s jaw; running across the moor with his heart in his mouth; legs kicking through an open van window; his nan waiting. Forever waiting.
And this was the image that finally stopped the crazy spinning in his head. His nan waiting for Billy, and waiting for him. He’d wanted so much to put an end to her misery, but he was only going to make it worse. Arnold Avery was going to kill him and then his nan would be waiting for both of them forever, and his mother would become his nan at the window, waiting as she had, even after Nan was dead.
And Davey? What would happen to Davey? Davey wasn’t used to being ignored but he would be, and he had nobody else in the world who loved him. All of the people who loved him would be gone—or as good as.
Steven felt sick.
He’d fucked up. Fuck. He’d fucked up. He was a stupid fuck. Fuck.
“Fuck” was not a big or bad enough word for what he was, but it would have to do for now. What had made him think he could do this? He was so stupid he deserved to be murdered, but he felt bad for Nan and Mum and Davey and Lewis.
Then he remembered what he was here for. Why he’d started this in the first place. And why he couldn’t leave now …
He shuddered at the horror of that truth.
“Cold?”
Steven jerked as Avery spoke, and realized he was shaking.
“Yeah.” He was also gripping his sandwich so tight that his fingers had gone through the bread and he could feel the hated wet tomato like slime on his fingertips.
“Want a jumper?”
Avery took off the pale green cardigan and Steven noticed it matched his strange, washed-out eyes. The last eyes Uncle Billy ever looked into.
His throat closed and he made another attempt before he could squeeze out: “No.”
Avery regarded him coolly and Steven looked at his messed-up sandwich, feeling his cheeks burn under the scrutiny.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Avery’s right hand loosen from the cardigan and move towards him. He watched the goose-bumps stand up on the flesh of his own arm, and then the gentle touch of the man’s finger on his cheek.
“You have butter on your face.”
Steven’s stomach rolled and he burped so
ftly and remembered that he’d eaten tomato.
Remembered Yasmin Gregory’s Tuesday knickers.
Remembered that what the newspaper referred to vaguely as “bodily fluids” disgusted Avery.
Hand shaking, and already slightly queasy, Steven braced himself and took another bite of sandwich.
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