“My name is Richard Cole,” the journalist said, sitting down at the table. He produced a notepad and opened it at a blank page.
“I’m Matt.”
“Just Matt?”
“That’s right.”
“You said you were staying at Lesser Malling.”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
Richard smiled humourlessly. “I’ve been through. I’m meant to cover it. Me, Kate and Julia – they’re the girls you saw downstairs – we all have our own territories. I got Lesser Malling. Lucky me!”
“Why lucky you?”
“Because nothing ever happens. I’m twenty-five years old. I’ve been working in this dump for eighteen months. And do you know the biggest news event I’ve had to cover so far? BAD EYESIGHT KILLS OLD
LADY.”
“How can bad eyesight kill you?”
“She fell in the river. We had a dog show in Greater Malling last week. The fleas were more interesting than the dogs. I got a parking ticket once. I almost put that on the front page.” He threw down the notepad and yawned. “You see, Matt, this is one of the most boring places in England… possibly in the whole world. It’s just a poxy little market town that doesn’t even have a market. Nothing ever happens.”
“So why are you here?”
“That’s a good question.” Richard sighed. “Three years at York University. All I ever wanted to be was a journalist. I did a course in London. I thought I’d get on to the Mail or the Express or else I’d just freelance. But there are no jobs around. I couldn’t afford to live in London so I thought I’d come back north again. Maybe get a job on the Yorkshire Post. I live in York. I like York. But the Yorkshire Post wouldn’t have me. I think I made a bad impression at my interview.”
“What happened?”
“I ran over the editor. It wasn’t my fault. I was late. I was reversing and I heard this thump. I didn’t realize it was him until I met him ten minutes later.” Richard shrugged. “Then I heard there was a place going here and, although Greater Malling was obviously a dump, I thought I’d take it. I mean, it was a job. But nobody reads the Gazette. That’s because – apart from adverts – there’s sod all in it. LOCAL VICAR OPENS FETE. That’s one week. Then, a week later… LOCAL SURGEON OPENS VICAR. It’s pathetic. And I’m stuck here until something else comes along, but nothing else has come along so I’m… stuck!” Richard pulled himself together. “You said you had a story.” He reached for his notepad and opened it. “That’s the one thing that’ll get me out of here. An old-fashioned scoop. Give me something I can put on the front page and I’ll give you any help you need. Right, so you’re staying in Lesser Malling?”
“I told you…”
“Where exactly?”
“A farm. A place called Hive Hall.”
Richard scribbled down the name. “So what’s the story?”
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”
“Try me.” Richard had perked up. He was looking more interested and alert.
“All right.” Matt wasn’t sure about this. He had only come to the Gazette to ask about Raven’s Gate. But there was something about the journalist that seemed trustworthy. He decided to go ahead.
And so he told Richard everything that had happened since his arrival in Lesser Malling. He described his first visit to the village and the chemist shop, his meeting with Tom Burgess, the lights and whispering in the wood, his time with Mrs Deverill, his second meeting with the farmer and his discovery of the dead body in the bedroom.
“…and that’s why,” he concluded, “I’m trying to find out who or what this Raven’s Gate is. It’s obviously something important. Tom Burgess died trying to warn me.”
“He died – but his body disappeared.”
“Yes.”
There was a brief silence and in that moment Matt knew it had been a waste of his time. The journalist had been making notes when he started talking but after a while he had stopped. He glanced at the notepad, at the half-empty page with a doodle of a dog and a flea at the bottom. It was obvious that Richard hadn’t believed a word he’d said.
“How old are you?” Richard asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Do you watch a lot of TV?”
“There is no TV at Hive Hall.”
Richard thought for a moment. “You never told me how you got there,” he said. “You just said that this woman – Jayne Deverill – is looking after you.”
That was the one part of the story that Matt had left out: the wounding of the security guard and his involvement with the LEAF Project. He knew that if he told the journalist who he was, he would end up on the front page of the Gazette… but for all the wrong reasons. It was the last thing he wanted.
“Where are your parents?” Richard asked.
“I don’t have any,” Matt said. “They died six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Matt shrugged. “I’ve got used to it,” he said, although he never had.
“Well, look…” Richard was less certain now. Either he felt sorry for Matt and didn’t want to say what he was about to say. Or he was simply trying to find a nicer way to say it. “I’m sorry, Matt. But everything you’ve told me is complete…”
“What?”
“Crap. Lanes that loop round in circles. Strange looks from the villagers! Farmers that are dead one minute and disappear the next! I mean, what do you expect me to say? I know I said I wanted a story. But I didn’t mean a fairy story!”
“What about the lights in the power station?”
“OK. Yes. I’ve heard about Omega One. It was built about fifty years ago as a sort of prototype… before they built nuclear power stations in other parts of the country. But they shut it down before I was born. There’s nothing there now. It’s just an empty shell.”
“An empty shell that Tom Burgess was guarding.”
“That’s what you say. But you don’t know for sure.”
“He knew something. And he was killed.”
There was a long silence.
Richard threw down his pen. It rolled around the table and came to rest next to the notepad. “You seem like a nice kid, Matt,” he said. “But the police came and there was nothing there and maybe, just maybe, you sort of imagined the whole thing.”
“I imagined a dead body? I imagined the words written on the wall?”
“Raven’s Gate? I’ve never heard of Raven’s Gate.”
“Well, if you haven’t heard of it, it obviously can’t exist!” Matt snapped sarcastically. Once again he was angry. “All right, Mr Cole. I can see I wasted my time coming here. It’s like you say. Nothing ever happens in Lesser Malling. But I get the feeling that if it did happen, you wouldn’t notice. I don’t know what I’ve got myself involved in, but everything I’ve told you is true and, to be honest, I’m getting scared. So maybe one day, when I turn up floating face down in a local river, you might decide it’s worth investigating. And I’m telling you now, I won’t have died of bad eyesight.”
Matt got up and stalked out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him. The frizzy-haired girl was climbing the stairs and she looked at him, surprised. He ignored her. Coming to the newspaper had been completely pointless. He still had two hours until the bus left for York. It was time to work out how to get enough money to pay for the fare.
He burst out on to Farrow Street and stopped.
There was a car parked in front of him, blocking the entrance. A Land Rover. He recognized it even before he saw Noah sitting in the front seat, his hands resting on the wheel. The back door opened and Mrs Deverill got out. She looked angry. Her eyes were ablaze and her skin seemed to have tightened. Although she was only two or three inches taller than Matt, she loomed over him as she stepped forward.
“What are you doing, Matthew?” she demanded.
“How did you know I was here?” he asked.
“I think you’d better come back with us, my dear. You’ve already caused quite enough troubl
e for one day.”
“I don’t want to come with you.”
“I don’t think you have any choice.”
Matt thought of refusing. She couldn’t force him into the car, not right in front of a newspaper office in a busy market town. But suddenly he felt exhausted. Mrs Deverill was right. He didn’t even have enough money for a bus. He had nowhere to go. What else could he do?
He got into the car.
Mrs Deverill climbed in after him, closing the door.
Noah rammed the car into gear and the three of them set off.
THE NEXUS
The sun had just dipped below the horizon and night was closing in once again. Mrs Deverill had lit a fire. She was sitting in front of the burning logs with a knitted shawl on her shoulders and Asmodeus curled up on her lap. To look at, she could have been anybody’s grandmother. Even the portrait of her ancestor seemed more friendly than usual. The hair was neater. The eyes were perhaps a little less cruel. Matt was standing in the doorway.
“I think you and I need to have a talk, Matthew,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She gestured at the armchair opposite her. Matt hesitated, then sat down. Six hours had passed since she had found him in Greater Malling. There had been no work that afternoon. The two of them had eaten dinner together in silence. And now this.
“You and I don’t seem to quite understand each other,” Mrs Deverill began. Her voice was soft and reasonable. “I get the feeling that you’re against me. I don’t know why. I haven’t hurt you. You’re living in my house. You’re eating my food. What exactly is wrong?”
“I don’t like it here,” Matt replied simply.
“You’re not meant to like it. You were sent here as a punishment, not because you deserved a holiday. Or maybe you’ve forgotten that.”
“I want to go back to London.”
“Is that what you told the people in Greater Malling? The people at the newspaper? Just what did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
A log collapsed in the hearth and a flurry of sparks leapt up. Asmodeus purred and Mrs Deverill reached down, running a single finger down the animal’s back.
“You shouldn’t have gone there. I don’t like journalists and I don’t like newspapers. Busying themselves in other people’s affairs. What were you thinking of, Matthew! Telling stories about me, about the village… It won’t do you any good. Did they believe you?” Matt didn’t answer. Mrs Deverill drew a breath and tried to smile, but the hardness never left her eyes. “Did you tell them about Tom Burgess?” she asked.
“Yes.” There was no point denying it.
“Well, that’s precisely the point I’m trying to make. First you get the police involved. Yes… I heard what happened from Miss Creevy. And when that doesn’t work, you go running to the press. And all the time you’re completely mistaken. You actually have no idea what’s going on.”
“I know what I saw!”
“I don’t think you do,” Mrs Deverill replied. “In a way, it’s my own fault. I got you to clean out the pigs and I didn’t realize… Some of the chemicals we use are very strong. They have a way of getting up your nose and into your brain. An adult like Noah can cope with it. Of course, he didn’t have much brain to begin with. But a young boy like yourself…”
“What are you saying?” Matt demanded. “Are you saying I imagined what I saw?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I think you’ve probably been imagining all sorts of things since you arrived here. But don’t worry. You’re never going to have to clean out the pigs again. At least, not with disinfectant. From now on, you’re going to use only soap and water.”
“You’re lying!”
“I won’t have that sort of language in my house, if you don’t mind, young man. It may have been allowed with your aunt in Ipswich, but it won’t do with me!”
“I know what I saw! He was dead in his room and the whole place had been torn apart. I didn’t imagine it. I was there!”
“What would it take to persuade you otherwise? What would it take to make you believe me?”
The telephone rang.
“Exactly on time,” Mrs Deverill said. She didn’t move from her seat but waved with a single hand. “I think you’ll find it’s for you.”
“For me?”
“Why don’t you answer it?”
With a sinking feeling, Matt got up and went over to the telephone. He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Matthew – is that you?”
Matt felt a shiver work its way down his spine. He knew it was impossible. It had to be some sort of trick.
It was Tom Burgess.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” the farmer said. No. It wasn’t the farmer. It was the farmer’s voice. Somehow it had been duplicated. “I’m afraid I missed you this morning. I had to go down to a market in Cirencester. I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks but I’ll come round and see you when I’m back…”
Was it Matt’s imagination or had it suddenly become very cold in the living room? The fire was still burning but there was no warmth from the flames. He hadn’t said a word to whoever – or whatever – it was at the other end of the line. He slammed down the phone.
“That wasn’t very friendly,” Mrs Deverill said.
“That wasn’t Tom Burgess.”
“I asked him to call you.” The firelight danced in her eyes. Matt glanced at the portrait and shivered. It was smiling at him, just like the woman who was sitting beneath it. “I thought it was best that he spoke to you himself.”
“How did you…?” Matt began.
But there was no point asking questions. He remembered the roads that led round in impossible circles, the cat that had been shot and come back to life. And now there was a farmer who had been dead but was somehow phoning from Cirencester. Matt was in the grip of a power much stronger than himself. He was helpless.
“I hope this is the end of the matter, Matthew,” Mrs Deverill was saying. “And I think you should be careful before you tell any more of these stories. Anybody who knows anything about you is unlikely to believe you. And I would have said that the last thing you need is to get into any more trouble with the police.”
Matt didn’t hear her. He had stopped listening. Silently he walked upstairs to his room. He was defeated – and he knew it. He undressed, slid under the covers and fell into a restless sleep.
The building was in Farringdon, close to the centre of London. It was two storeys high, Victorian, a survivor in a street which had been bombed in the Second World War and redeveloped ever since. It looked like a private house or perhaps a solicitor’s office. There was a single black door with a letter box, but the only letters that were ever delivered were junk mail. Once a month the doormat was cleared, the letters taken away and burned. Lights came on and off inside the building but they were on time switches. Nobody lived there. Despite the high cost of property in London, for most of the year the building was unused.
At eight o’clock in the evening, a taxi drew up outside and a man got out. He was Indian, about fifty years old, dressed in a suit with a light raincoat draped around his shoulders. He paid the driver and waited until the taxi had driven away. Then, taking a key out of his pocket, he walked over to the door and unlocked it. Briefly, he glanced up and down the pavement. There was nobody in sight. He went in.
The narrow hallway was empty and spotlessly clean. Ahead, a flight of stairs led up to the first floor. The man had not been here for several months and he paused for a moment, remembering the details of the place: the wooden steps, the cream-coloured walls, the old-fashioned light switch next to the banister. Nothing had changed. The man wished he hadn’t come here. Every time he came, he hoped he would never have to return.
He went upstairs. The top corridor was more modern, expensively carpeted, with halogen lighting and a swivelling security camera at every corner. There was another door at the far end, this one made of darkened glass. It opened e
lectronically as the man approached, then closed quietly behind him.
The Nexus had come together again.
There were twelve of them – eight men and four women. They had travelled here from all parts of the world. They only saw each other very occasionally but they were always connected, communicating with each other by phone or email. All of them were influential. They were linked to government, to the secret service, to business, to the Church. They had told nobody that they would be here tonight. Very few people outside the room even knew that their organization existed.
Apart from the table and twelve leather chairs, there was very little else in the room. Three phones and a computer sat next to each other on a long wooden console. Clocks showed the time in London, Paris, New York, Moscow, Beijing and – curiously – Lima, in Peru. Various maps of the world hung on the walls, which, although there was no way of knowing it, were soundproofed and filled with sophisticated surveillance equipment to prevent the room from being bugged.
The Indian man nodded and sat down in the last empty seat.
“Thank you for coming, Professor Dravid.” The speaker was sitting at the head of the table. It was a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a severe black dress and a jacket fastened at the neck. She had a thin, chiselled face and black hair, cut short. Her eyes were strangely out of focus. She didn’t look at the professor as she spoke. She couldn’t look at anyone: she was blind.
“I’m very glad to see you, Miss Ashwood,” Dravid replied. He spoke slowly. His voice was deep, his accent very precise. “As a matter of fact, I was in England anyway. I’m working at the Natural History Museum. But I’m grateful to everyone else for coming. This meeting was called at short notice and I know some of you have travelled a long way.” He nodded at the man sitting next to him, who had flown in from Sydney, Australia. “As you are all aware, Miss Ashwood called me three nights ago, requesting an emergency session of the Nexus. Having spoken with her, I agreed that it was critical we should meet straight away. Again, I thank you for coming.”
Dravid turned to Miss Ashwood. “Tell them what you told me, Miss Ashwood,” he said.
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