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

'He's probably off hunting rats and mice.' She shuddered at the thought. 'But there's something else worrying you, isn't there, Gav?'

Silence, except for a stifled sob. They'd both end up crying at this rate.

'Come on, you can tell Mummy.' She'd been 'Mum' for the last two years but now he didn't seem as grown-up as she'd thought, a little boy who needed to confide in his mother. They had to go back a few years if they were to get anywhere.

'It's - it's the - Wilsons.' He choked the name out.

'And who are the Wilsons?'

'Big boys at school. They're going to beat me up on Monday.' Gavin was beginning to cry; a couple of tears escaped and rolled down either cheek. They'd've done me over after school today in the playground, only Dad came early.'

This is ridiculous/ She felt her anger mounting towards the unknown village louts. 'Now don't worry about them. I doubt very much whether it's any more than schoolboy threats. They'll have forgotten all about it by Monday. And, anyway, they wouldn't dare.'

'They would!' Almost a shout. 'They blacked Kevin Arnold's eye on Wednesday and they got him down and kicked him at playtime on Thursday.'

'And what did Mr Hughes say to that?'

'He doesn't know who did it and Kevin won't say, else they'll really do him. And Mr Hughes is scared of the Wilsons too because if he caned them their big brothers would slash the tyres of his car or throw bricks through his window. Everybody'sscared of the Wilsons, Mum,'

'Well, there's no need for you to be.' Janie's mouth tightened and she clenched her fists. 'They're just yobbos, as bad as those rioters in London. Anyway, why are they going to beat you up?'

'They say - I'm an English - bastard,' Gavin was beginning to sob now.

'Well, I think they're Welsh . . . ' She stopped herself in time. 'I see, they're copying these Welsh nationalists they've seen on telly. Anything that's English can't be any good. Spray the English road signs with aerosol paint. Set fire to the English holiday cottages. Drive the English back over the border. Good God, it's like the old border skirmishes of years ago. I suppose this boy Kevin Arnold is English?'

'Yes.' Gavin buried his face against his mother. 'They say that we've no right to be living at Hodre and they'll beat me up just to show you what'll happen to you if you don't pack up and leave'.

'Well, we're not standing for that sort of behaviour either at school or anywhere else,' Janie snapped. 'In fact, I expect your Dad will go and see Mr Hughes on Monday and get this nonsense sorted out.'

'No! No, Mum, please don't let Dad go and cause trouble because the Wilsons will kill me!'

Janie sighed. Terrorism at juvenile level, even out here in the sticks. Gavin was terrified; the Wilson boys obviously held the school in a grip of fear. It was all Peter's fault for coming out here in the first place. They never had any of this kind of trouble at Perrycroft.

Slowly she helped Gavin undress, pulled on his pyjamas the way she used to do when he was small, and felt the way he trembled in every limb. He didn't resist, showed none of the embarrassment that a nine-year-old might display in such circumstances. Because he was very, very frightened.

As Janie descended the steep narrow staircase she could hear the tap-tapping of Peter's typewriter from the front room, which he was using as a study. And in that moment she hated him for what he was doing to them. Oh why couldn't they have stayed back home in the nice friendly comfortable city? Why did he have to write a book and change their whole lifestyle? Why couldn't he have stayed on in a regular nine-to-five job that didn't have any problems?

She knew the answers to those questions all right. Because Peter didn't want to conform to the System. Because he wanted more money. And more. Because he didn't give a damn for anybody now, neither herself nor Gavin.

But somebody was going to have to sort these Wilsons out. If necessary she would do it herself.

A scratching, scurrying noise from the ceiling above her interrupted her thoughts. Mice. The skin on the back of her neck pimpled and her mouth went dry. For one fleeting second she almost ran towards the front door, to get away from this vermin-infested hovel. But she didn't, because her terror of the unknown was greater than that of rats and mice.

And there was something insidious out there in the blackness of a mountain night. She could sense its presence.

2

The Foggs always had a lie-in on Saturday mornings. Not as long as on Sundays because there were weekend chores that had to be done; like shopping, washing the car, mowing the lawns in the summer.