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

'He's got to be around here somewhere,' Peter muttered. He thought again about going into the wood. No, the boy wouldn't go in there, he had no reason to. But young boys didn't need reasons.

'Listen!' Janie gripped his arm until her fingernails dug deep like the talons of a bird of prey.

They both listened. The magpie was chattering again as if determined that these trespassers in a corvine domain should not hear whatever it was. A movement somewhere in the thicket as though some heavy creature had trodden on a dead branch and snapped it.

And inside, Janie was wanting to run, to dash headlong back down that steep field, not caring if she slipped and fell. Her terrors of the previous night came back like a damp icy cloud driven by a shrill Arctic wind, chilling her right through. There was something in there; this time there really was!

A monster was forcing its way through a pile of dead bracken, a black-faced creature with horns and eyes that regarded the two watchers intently and had them cowering back; then it lumbered out into the open, standing staring at them with a bewildered expression on its face.

'It's - it's, a - sheep' Janie's voice was weak with relief.

'A ram to be precise.' Peter tried to make it sound casual. 'Nothing to worry about.'

'But where's Gavin?'

It all came back to stark reality, the hopelessness and the panic which was starting to return.

'He must be . . .'

Peter's words were drowned by a shrill whining sound that was fast rising to a crescendo, a harsh noise that seemed to whip the lingering pockets of mist like a sudden gust of wind; an unexpected flood of weak sunshine shafting down as though to spotlight the principal actors in this remote drama.

'What is it?' Janie clutched at her husband's arm, noting subconsciously that he was trembling too.

'Sounds like a chainsaw,' he muttered. 'Bound to be a lot of forestry work going on in a place like this.'

Louder, painful to the ears, vaguely reminiscent of noises that were all part of urban life, a faint smell of diesel on the air.

'Look!' Janie pointed back down to the small valley in which Hodre nestled. 'It's - it's - '

'Motorbikes!' There was contempt in Peter's tone; he saw the machines, two of them traversing the downhill slope, bumping over the rough ground, the riders somehow managing to stay in the saddles. 'Damn it, we had enough of this

nonsense at Perrycroft, every bleeding night kids roaring round and round the block creating hell specially to annoy other folks.'

'There's Gavin!' Janie's shriek was audible even above the din of the bikes.

Sure enough even at that distance there was no mistaking Gavin's slight form, his faded light blue denims showing up against the autumn grassland, his red hair streaming as he ran; ran because the motorcycles were gaining on him; mechanical lurchers intent on running down their prey.

'Oh God!' Janie was already moving forward, still holding on to Peter, dragging him with her. 'They'll run him down, that's what they're trying to do!'

As they began the steep and slippery descent, heedless of their own safety, the angry roar of the bikes below drowned their futile shouts. The machines seemed to be honing in on the fleeing boy, veering at the last second just when it seemed that they must collide with him. Circling, revving up, driving him in the opposite direction like a collie in pursuit of a stubborn ewe.

'They're mad,' Janie screamed in Peter's ear, 'don't they realise the danger?'

Of course they do, he hadn't the breath to reply, they're doing it deliberately, it's yobbish bullying. The way those Wilson boys have been bullying him at school.

Nearer now, the Foggs covering the ground at an amazing speed, the frightening scene only a mere thirty yards away portrayed in every brutal detail. The faces of the black-coated bikers sheer ugliness that was screwed up into masks of hate, slanted eyes that gave them an oriental appearance, both with thin lips that bespoke cruelty. Brothers, they might even be twins. They turned, revved up again, grinned at the sight of their fleeing prey, the way the boy was stumbling, panting for breath. Then they shot forward again. Janie could tell that Gavin was screaming, trying to cover his deathly white face with his arms, surrendering because there was nowhere else to run. She couldn't look any more; this time her baby couldn't escape those wheels which bore down on him.

Yet somehow the riders altered course at the very last second. Their victim had fallen to the ground, a wheel missing his outstretched legs by inches, pumping stinking black fumes into his face.