"The Lurkers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

6

Gavin had been dreading morning playtime throughout the preceding lesson. Mr Hughes didn't make him feel any easier; it was almost as though he had singled him out with his bad tempered baleful glare time after time. Mark and Jon Wilson were sitting at the back of the classroom. Gavin heard them sniggering together, bringing a feeling like an acute bout of colic to the pit of his stomach. It was ail Dad's fault; he ought not to have gone and complained to the headmaster. In a way it was as if Mr Hughes and the Wilson brothers had joined forces to make life uncomfortable for the helpless outsider.

'Right, that'll do for now,' Hughes grunted. He fixed his gaze on Gavin again and picked up his pipe from the desk. 'Playtime, lads. Out you all go. I don't want anybody hanging behind in the classroom.'

A sudden rush for the door, boys and girls eager to shake off the boredom of forty minutes of mathematics, chattering amongst themselves. The Wilsons were first out, not even glancing back, an urgency about their movements.

'You, too, boy.' The headmaster regarded Gavin steadily. 'You heard what I said. Fresh air is what you need to get rid of that pallid complexion of yours.' An insult that was meant to hurt: You don't fit in here but you'll damned well do what everybody else does, like it or not.

Gavin nodded, his lower lip trembling. But he wasn't going to give the schoolmaster the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

It was damp and foggy outside in the playground. Gavin stood on the edge of the concrete compound. He saw a group of children playing football with a sagging, partially deflated old ball, trying to kick it between the stanchions of a rusty climbing frame. Some younger ones were playing tag, squealing and shouting.

He had a feeling of not being wanted, of a general unwillingness to allow him to join in, to mix with them. It had never been like this at Perrycroft; everybody played with everybody else. Sometimes you quarrelled but it was never over anything very important and was usually forgotten when the bell went for lessons.

'Well, if it isn't the English creep!'

He stiffened as he recognised one of the Wilsons' voices behind him. He didn't know which one—they both sounded the same. He wondered whether to run back into the classroom but decided against it. Mr Hughes was still in there marking homework. He'd be angry and send him straight back outside. It was no good running when there was nowhere to run to.

'You haven't forgotten what we said on Friday, have you?' They were edging forward, one on either side of him. 'We told you what we do to the English bastards!'

Suddenly both Gavin's wrists were seized and pulled behind his back, so that he let out a cry of pain. Leering juvenile faces were thrust close to his own, twin expressions of hate that went far beyond their years.

'You English have no right here,' Jon Wilson spat. 'My dad says so. He says we oughta beat the living daylights outa you foreigners^

'Yeah,' Mark agreed. 'And we always do what our dad says, don't we Jon? Else he beats the living daylights outa us. So we gotta do it whether we likes it or not. But we likes it.'

They pulled him back and shoved him hard up against the wall of the school building, then banged his head against the rough stone, so that there was a momentary blaze of blinding lights before his eyes. He cried out.

'Knock 'is bloody teeth out, Jon. Black 'is eyes!'

'Hold it!' Jon caught his brother's arm. 'You know what our dad says: you don't leave no marks on anybody, else they can get you for it. Hit 'im in the guts, it don't bruise there.'

Gavin doubled up and would have fallen had they not been holding him. Hard short jabs seemed to explode his abdomen, making him gasp for breath. He was not able even to cry out with pain, but seemed to deflate like the old football the children were still kicking about.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. No more than half a dozen below-the-belt punches, and then his attackers released their hold on him and stood back as he slumped to the ground clutching at his stomach—trying to breathe, retching, groaning, writhing like a worm that has been speared by a gardener's fork. Even the tears wouldn't come. A terrible fear that they had injured him permanently, that he'd never walk again, flooded his mind. He looked up and saw their leering faces through a blur, like a reflection in a pool distorted by ripples.

'That's for what your dad did to our Dai,' Jon Wilson spat. 'And it's a warning about what'll happen to your pa and maybe your ma too if they don't get their stinking English hides out of Hodre. You tell 'em, and don't forget we didn't do nothin' to you. These other kids'll swear blind we never touched you. Get it?'

Gavin nodded; he didn't mean to but somehow his head bobbed up and down. A sudden surge of pain made him almost black out, and when he looked up again they'd gone to join the others in kicking the old football. Everybody was totally oblivious to his suffering.

Gavin got to his knees and dusted himself down. He knew he could cry now, but he forced himself to hold the tears back. He straightened up, then doubled over again clutching at his stomach; it was as if a car had run over him and squashed his intestines into a flat mulch. Dizzily he held on to the wall, half afraid that the twin bullies might come back and start on him again.

He thought about going back inside and reporting the incident to Mr Hughes. That meant the schoolmaster would have to take some action. Or would he? Just a bit of a scuffle, boy. They haven't hurt you; goodness, you haven't even got any bruises!

Gavin knew his mother was terrified too. Afraid of Hodre and something that neither of them understood. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was receding; it was a dull ache now, like wind that couldn't escape.

But his fear wasn't lessening. It was growing stronger.

Just as Peter replaced the telephone he heard Janie's Mini pull on to the grass verge outside and the slight judder of pre-ignition as she switched off the engine. He sighed; she'd have to be told the facts now that PC Calvert was on his way up here. He'd hoped she would not return for an hour or two, giving him time to get rid of the law before the cat's disappearance was discussed.

'Hi.' She kicked the door open and came in carrying a cardboard box in her arms. A number of tiny holes had been gouged in its sides with a sharp instrument.

'What's that?' His curiosity overcame all the fears which were crowding in on him.

'Look and see,' she smiled, lowering the box on to the table and lifting one of the flaps.

He bent over, a look of astonishment on his face. 'A rabbit!'

'Yes.' She lifted out the small grey and white half-grown creature. It stared up at them with frightened eyes. 'There was a sign offering rabbits for sale outside one of the cottages in the village. I thought perhaps you could knock up a small hutch of some kind out of all that waste wood that's lying about up in the granary. The cat's been missing for nearly three days now and, well, I thought a pet of some kind might make up for it. Gavin's upset about Snowy, you can tell that. I'm afraid—I get the feeling that—something's happened to that cat.'

'Yes.' He spoke slowly, trying not to meet her gaze. Tm afraid something has happened to it.'

'What—where is he?' Janie clutched the rabbit to her breast as though she feared that the same nameless fate might befall this creature also.

'That scream you heard last night—'

'It wasn't a fox!' Surely he wasn't going to start that argument all over again. 'I know it wasn't.'

'No, no it wasn't a fox.' He stared down at the floor. 'It—it was Snowy.'

'Oh my God, what's happened to him?'

The Wilsons.' Lay the blame first, the details could follow after. "They'll go to any lengths, apparently, with their campaign of terrorism against the English. They've killed Snowy.'

'Oh no! How?'

Well, she'd have to be told, because she would be here when the policeman arrived and he'd want to know every gory detail. They hanged him in a tree and gutted him.'

'How awful, how despicable!' She went a deathly colour that even her make-up could not hide. 'Where did they do it?'

Oh God, that was one question he wished she hadn't asked. 'One of those firs in the stone circle.'

She swayed. Peter grasped her arm, sure she was going to faint. He took the rabbit from her and put it back in the box.

'How—how are you so sure it was the Wilsons?' She clung to him and buried her face against his chest, and he felt the first sobs beginning. It wasn't just the cat; all her fears were building to a peak.

'It must be, part of their crazy campaign to drive the English out of Wales, as well as getting even with me for breaking up their biking session on Saturday.'

'No.' Her voice was low. 'It's not them, I know it. It's that circle—and whatever it is that's still alive up there.'

'Now you're being ridiculous.' Hell, he didn't sound very convincing. There's nothing up there—just a few big stones and some fir trees. It was the Wilsons who killed the cat.'

'Ah1 right.' She gave a loud sigh. 'You're entitled to your opinion, just as I'm entitled to mine. Only I'm afraid I can't stick it here much longer, and neither can Gavin. If you're not prepared to leave, Peter, then I'm going to go and stay with my parents, and I'm taking Gavin with me.'

'I've got to stay." His jaw became square, it always did when he was being stubborn. I've got to stay until I've written my book, and so far I'm not getting on very fast.' A note of anger began to creep into his voice. 'It seems that you're deliberately out to disrupt my work. Drop everything and go and make a rabbit hutch. There's bogeymen in the wood; druids have come back to haunt the old circle. And on top of that I've got this bloody peasant family doing their utmost to drive us out. Well I'm bloody well sick of it and I'm not budging for any of you. You go if you want to, but none of your spooks are going to drive me away.'

She opened her mouth to reply, but checked her angry retort as her ears picked up the sound of a car's engine, slowing, dying, and the metallic clang of a door slamming.

'That sounds like the police,' Peter said. 'Now perhaps we can get something done. Your fears allayed for a start. And then I can get on with my book in peace.'

PC Calvert was only a year or two off retirement age. Possibly he could have attained promotion to a higher rank had it not been for his, or rather his wife's, reluctance to move from Woodside. Her whole life centred round the small mountain village, and she had repeatedly insisted in the early years of their marriage that she would die if she went to live anywhere else. George Calvert had an open mind about the Woodside folk. They were a close-knit, superstitious, suspicious lot, but if you went along with them life was fairly easy. Who was to know if the regulars at the Cat continued drinking for an hour or so after closing time? In their own way the inhabitants of the village were law-abiding, so he let them alone, and they accepted him because he was Ella's husband and almost forgot that he was an outsider, born and bred in Cardiff. He was Welsh anyway, and that was the criterion.

Calvert carefully placed his flat hat upside down on the table and accepted the cup of tea which Jamie handed him, hoping that she wouldn't notice that his hand shook a little. Tall and thin, he looked ungainly on the small upright chair. His brow furrowed as he sipped his drink. He'd seen death many times during his career, and now suddenly he was shaken by the sight of a dead cat. It didn't make sense, he couldn't figure it out. It was the way it had been killed, of course; the sheer callousness of it all.

'It's those Wilsons,' Peter insisted, 'getting their own back on me.'

'Let's not accuse anybody without proof.' A village policeman had to be a diplomat at all times. 'And proof we certainly haven't got.' The last thing he wanted to say was, 'It looks like some kind of ritual killing to me, a sort of sacrifice.' There had been odd reports up and down the country of black magicians carrying out filthy blood rites in old churchyards and such places, but surely they'd never come to a place like Hodre. He'd have to word his report very carefully if he wasn't going to stir up a real hornets' nest. 'Look, Mr Fogg, I'm going to make a few discreet enquiries. If you'll leave it with me for a few days maybe I'll come up with something. On the face of it it looks like the work of vandals.'

'Tell me about the Wilsons.' Peter regarded the policeman steadily. 'The younger ones have been threatening my son at school.'

They're a bit of a rough lot'—a reluctant admission—'the old man's got a permanent chip on his shoulder. I suppose having twins twice over didn't help.' Calvert laughed. 'He's drilled into his lads a kind of fanatical patriotism, sort of if somebody's not Welsh they're an enemy. There never used to be much bother but since one or two strangers drifted into Woodside the Wilsons seem to have taken it upon themselves to wage war on the English. Between you and me'—the constable, smiled faintly, winked and tapped his forehead with his finger—'they're a bit dulally, if you know what I mean. I'm not saying they killed your cat and I'm not saying they didn't, but it's the kind of thing they would do. Maybe we'll find out, maybe we won't, but I'll give 'em a friendly warning that I think it might be them and there'll be trouble if they do anything else. Oh, and if they come up biking again and causing you trouble, just give me a buzz and I'll come up.'

PC Calvert finished his tea, picked up his hat and stood up. 'Well, it's been nice meeting you folks but I'll have to be tiddling along.'

'Just tell me one thing,' Peter said, and added, 'in confidence of course. What do Messrs Peters and Bostock do for a living?'

'Now why on earth do you ask that?' The policeman's eyebrows rose. 'You've not had any trouble with them have you?'

'No.' Peter smiled. 'Except that when we called in at the Cat for a drink last night they recounted a host of horrible legends and rumours purely for our benefit. I wondered why they went to work on moonlight nights in particular.'

'They're poachers.' Calvert's expression was grave. 'And tough customers at that. They've both done time, about three years ago. Twelve months apiece for maliciously wounding a gamekeeper one night. They damned near killed him. Fortunately out here there are no estates where game is reared in large numbers, and mostly they concern themselves with ground game—rabbits and hares—and most of the farmers round here turn a blind eye to it. In a way Peters and Bostock are doing them a favour by keeping the rabbits down. Mind you, if they see a pheasant they'll have it, and there's been reports of poultry gone missing from time to time. Take a tip from me, if they get working the fields round here at night and you hear 'em, let 'em get on with it. When it comes to doing unpleasant things and getting their own back on somebody for something, the Wilsons have got nothing on those two!'

Janie felt a little shiver run up and down her spine. Truly the night had a thousand eyes. And how many other unpleasant characters were roaming the fields and woods around Hodre during the nocturnal hours?

'Don't forget, any bother from anybody and I'll be right up'

'He's genuine,' Peter murmured, as they watched the blue and white Panda van winding its way back down the lane in the direction of Woodside. 'A real nice guy, the best so far in this place.'

'What about Hughes, the schoolmaster?'

'I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, and he must weigh fifteen stone.' Peter's eyes narrowed. 'He's a coward and a bully and it's quite obvious to me that he's scared stiff of the Wilson family. I reckon from this morning onwards that he's scared of me too.' He laughed.

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.