The Dark One
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1995-08-15 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: THE GORLAYS HAVE JUST AGREED TO TAKE TWELVE YEAR OLD MARCEL INTO THEIR HOME WHILE HIS PARENTS ARE AWAY. EVEN THOUGH THEIR OWN SON AND DAUGHTER WOULD RATHER TEY DIDN'T. EVEN THOUGH MARCEL IS ADDICTED TO GAMBLING AND CIGARETTES. EVEN THOUGH RUMORS ARE SPREADING AROUND TOWN ABOUT SATANIC RITUALS AND DEMONIC POSSESSION. AFTER ALL IT IS ONLY FOR THREE DAYS. IS AN ETERNITY IN HELL SOON MARCEL IS DESCOVERED IN A GRAVEYARD HOLDING A SHATTERED SKULL. SOON, A HORRIFYING FATE BEFALLS REMUS, THE GORLAY FAMILY DOG. SOON THE GORLAYS ARE TRAPPED IN A HOUSE WHERE THE DOORS AND WINDOWS WON'T OPEN AND THE TELEP
Publisher: Zebra

The Dark One - Kindle Version 1.01

(c) Guy N Smith 1995 - 2012

Published by Black Hill Books, December 2012

ISBN : 978-1-907846-60-1

First Published by Zebra Books May 1995.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

The End

For Charlie Adlard, one of the best comic artists around.

One

Thursday evening

“I really don’t like the idea of having that boy here, Rankin.” Carol Gorlay’s tone was reprimanding as she dried the dishes with more vigour than was necessary. “At least, not for a whole week. And in any case, I think you should have consulted me first!”

Rankin Gorlay shifted uncomfortably at the table. He had been plucking up the courage to tell Carol this piece of unwelcome news ever since his return from the office at five-thirty. He cleared his throat, thought about a cigarette, then decided against it. Carol tolerated his smoking habits but this was not the time to push her patience to the brink.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted up his newspaper, a kind of barricade against the expected verbal attack. “I didn’t think you’d mind. But, in any case, Tom and Judy won’t be able to get a holiday if they can’t farm Marcel out somewhere. I thought it would help them out.”

“Which it will.” She stacked a pile of plates noisily and slammed the cupboard door. “But it certainly won’t help me. Just the reverse, in fact.”

Rankin focused his eyes on the paper before him seeing the feature he had written for the Advertiser earlier in the week, an in-depth piece entitled “Ritual Abuse: The Facts and the Fantasies.” He’d read it through enough times. He didn’t need to read it again.

Approaching forty, there were flecks of grey in his wavy brown hair, and his features had a ruggedness, a stubborn determination about them, that came from investigating highly controversial subjects. A “witch hunt” had been simmering in town for the past few weeks, and this article would only serve to fuel it. But Rankin had no regrets because reporting was his job. All the same it made life difficult for Carol and the children.

Carol had her back towards him, maybe deliberately. At thirty-six, he didn’t think she looked any different from when he had first met her that night in the Rose & Crown. Small and slim, hair tied back in a ponytail, she wore one of the multi-coloured dresses which she sold at her clothing parties. Her quick temper only added to her appeal, he decided. He wouldn’t have her any other way. Except right now, maybe.

Okay, maybe he should have consulted her before consenting to have Marcel here for a whole week. But the decision had been made, there was no going back on it. He sighed and looked up as the kitchen door opened and Glenn and Cathy came in. Glenn was thirteen, attended the local C. of E. school. Academically he was average, for he had little interest in his schoolwork. He was obsessed with sports, soccer mostly, and dreamed of becoming a professional and playing for Liverpool. He’d probably end up playing for the local club. It was hard to tell at this early stage.

Cathy was in her first year at sixth form college. She bore a strong resemblance to her mother, both in physique and temperament. Sharp-tongued, she was at a rebellious age which wasn’t helped by the stress of her studies. Not content with going for three A levels, she was also taking examinations in ballet, Greek dancing, acting and drama, and music. Knowing her, she would probably sweep the board with the lot but it wouldn’t be easy on any of them.

“Dad, we’re not having him staying here, are we?” Cathy’s hearing was exceptionally acute. She had doubtless overheard her parents’ conversation through the closed door.

“Oh, no!” Glenn stared in dismay. “I don’t want Marcel here!”

Rankin sighed. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he had foreseen. He folded his newspaper, preparing himself for the coming confrontation. Three to one were formidable odds.

“I said Marcel could come here because otherwise Tom and Judy won’t be able to get a holiday and if anybody needs a break, they do.” He glanced at the three of them and was met with stony stares.

“Shit!” Glenn said.

“How can I possibly study with that boy here all the time?” Cathy’s foot began to tap the carpet the way it always did when she was building up for a tantrum.

“You know my feelings,” Carol added.

“It’s just as difficult for me,’ Rankin answered.

“No, it isn’t,” Carol’s tone was sharp. “You’re at work all day, you won’t have to cope with him. I dread to think what he’ll get up to. You know what trouble he’s been these past few weeks, and I’ll lay a bet that before the end of the week we have the police knocking on the door. And another thing, I’m not having him smoking in this house!”

Which meant that she would agree to Marcel’s visit, albeit reluctantly, Rankin thought, and breathed a faint sigh of relief. There was no getting away from it, the Hart boy was in trouble. Four charges of burglary were lodged against him and the cases were due to come up before a juvenile court next month. Which was the main reason why the boy’s parents needed a break from him.

“If he must smoke, then he can smoke in my study, under supervision.” Rankin knew there was no way they would be able to stop Marcel from smoking, far better that he did it under strict supervision. “He can sit in the chair in the corner, have his smoke, and stub it out in the ashtray when he’s finished. That way he won’t have a sly drag in bed and set the house on fire.”

“So we’re making concessions already,” Carol sneered. “And we’ll have to make sure there’s no money left lying around, lock the larder door to stop him filching biscuits and cake, and when he disappears we’ll be wondering whether he’s playing the one-armed bandits in the pubs, shoplifting or burgling. I can see it’s going to be a wonderful week!”

“We’re only responsible for him up to a point. I’ve made that clear.” Rankin sensed that he had won a slight advantage. “If he goes off and gets into trouble, then it won’t be our fault. We’ll just do the best we can.”

“I think Tom and Judy should take him with them.” Carol turned back to the sink still piqued. “After all, he’s their son and parents should take their kids on holiday with them. What they’re doing is passing the responsibility on to somebody else.”

“Then they wouldn’t get the break they need. They need a complete rest from … him.”

“I hate Marcel,” Glenn clenched his fists defiantly, “He’s fat, he doesn’t wash and he smells. I’m going to duff him up.”

“No, you won’t,” Rankin’s tone was sharp. “I’m not having you looking for trouble. If he doesn’t toe the line I shall lock him in his bedroom.”

“He’ll just climb out of the window like he does at home when his Dad shuts him in his room.”

Rankin sighed. “Look, let’s play it as it comes. I’ll deal with any problems that arise. Got it?”

“You make sure you do.” Cathy stamped her foot and turned to leave the room. “I’ve got mock A levels next year, plus my intermediate ballet, dancing, and speech and drama, and I’m not having a little squirt like Marcel Hart disrupt my studies!” She slammed the door as she went out.

“Marcel’s a thickie,” Glenn made to follow his sister. “He can’t even read properly. He’s a wanker.” The door opened and banged a second time.

“A lesson in how to disrupt one’s family in one easy move,” Carol finished the drying, then hung the tea towel on the draining board. “God, I was just looking forward to a peaceful half-term and you have to spring this on us. Well, I shall probably have a nervous breakdown, and it will be on your head.”

“It’s the least we can do to help them out.” Rankin was unruffled. “They’d do the same for us.”

“Except that Glenn would refuse to go and stay with them, and Cathy’s quite old enough to stay here on her own. So that destroys your lame argument, Rankin. But all right, I’ll deal with Marcel. Apparently I don’t have any choice.”

She moved across to the window and stood there looking out. You couldn’t get much better than Fishmore View in this historic market township. Only success and money enabled you to live here. She asked herself for the hundredth time what the hell she and Rankin were doing having a close friendship with a family from Sandpits Avenue. You only had to look at the court cases in either the Advertiser or the Journal each week and most of the offenders came from Sandpits. Pub fights, theft, not to mention the debts. She tried to convince herself that the Harts were different. Except for Marcel, and he had a problem that went deeper than a gambling addiction which he stole to fund. Maybe a psychiatrist could get to the bottom of it. So far the social workers were passing the buck, trying to persuade the probation service to take it on. In the meantime, the boy might be sent to a juvenile remand centre and come out worse than when he went in. Yes, Rankin was right, they owed it to their friends for nobody else would help them. Her reaction was due to the shock of having it sprung on her so suddenly. Maybe the week would be all right after all.

There was another good reason for getting Marcel out of Sandpits, if only for a week. She only had to read Rankin’s feature in this week’s Advertiser. This town was gearing itself up for a hysterical repeat of what had happened in Rochdale, Nottingham, and the Orkneys. Some kid, Carol thought he was from the Sandpits, had claimed that his folks had taken him along to a satanic ritual where a goat had been sacrificed. Most likely he’d seen it on an adult video which he wasn’t old enough to watch, anyway. Other children, not to be outdone, would come up with similar stories. It could result in yet another dawn raid by police and social workers.

Rankin’s feature was, as always, unbiased. He attempted to separate the facts from the fantasies. Last week there had been “evidence” of a black magic ritual in St. Lawrence’s churchyard. It was probably teenagers setting up a “find” for the police, watching the press to see if their bait was taken. Rankin said as much in his article; there was no proof. A chalked circle and a dead white cockerel with its throat cut were just the things somebody setting up a spoof would use. But it would spread from there. That was the trouble. The authorities might go over the top again – which was a good reason for Marcel coming to stay with the Gorlays.

“Do you think there’s anything in this ritual abuse rumour?” She continued looking out of the window as she asked the question. Whatever his own thoughts, Rankin would not lie to her.

“Frankly, I don’t know,” he spoke quietly, almost inaudibly. “I don’t suppose anybody knows except those concerned whether they’re guilty or not guilty. The problem is that many of the practices associated with witchcraft are not in themselves illegal, it’s only when they start involving children that they step on the wrong side of the law. And you can bet your life that if witchcraft hysteria sweeps this town, half the kids with grudges against their parents will leap on the bandwagon. But after the Orkneys fiasco I think the authorities will tread rather more warily. I tried to get that message across in my article, although people will interpret it as they want to. I had to write it, I did the best I could.”

“I know you did.” she came across the room and kissed him. “I’m worried about Marcel, you know.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t like his parents because they try to stop him stealing and smoking and gambling. Tom’s hit him on occasions, not a slap, but hard.”

Rankin nodded.

“Marcel’s the kind to make a phone call either to Childline or the police. Next thing you know he’s taken into care and Tom and Judy are charged with child abuse.”

“There’s not much we can do about that, love.”

“No,” there was a worried expression on Carol’s features, “but you can’t trust Marcel. He doesn’t want to come here any more than we want him. So, if he gets into one of his moods, he’s quite likely to make a telephone call and drop us right in the shit!”

Rankin felt his stomach churn. He hadn’t thought of that one. The boy was mental, to put it bluntly. He did crazy, dangerous things for illogical reasons. Nasty and spiteful, there were things the neighbourhood and the police suspected him of but were unable to prove.

But it was wrong to blame Marcel without proof – there were other kids on the estate almost as bad as him.

“We’ll watch our step, play it as it comes,” Rankin stood up. “Come on, let’s go down to Dinham Weir for a meal. Special treat, eh?”

Carol smiled, recognizing the bribery but not objecting to it.

“Where are Tom and Judy off to next week?” she asked.

“No idea,” Rankin shrugged. “They didn’t say. But we shall see them before they go, so I must remember to ask them for a telephone number at which they can be contacted. Just on the off chance of an emergency. Not that we’re likely to need it but it’s best to think of these things in advance.”

Carol felt uneasy. She tried to shrug the feeling off but it refused to go away. This whole plan was rather too vague for her liking. It was disconcerting.

Two

Marcel Hart was overweight. His waistline bulged over his torn and dirty jeans, his fleshy chin appeared to wobble whenever he spoke. Tousled auburn hair straggled on to his shoulders, helping to hide his unwashed neck. His ungainly walk was not helped by his scuffed and ripped sneakers which were a size too small for his feet. His mother had promised to try to find him a larger size at the next car boot sale, but he didn’t give a shit whether she did or not. His calloused toes were immune to the pinching of ill-fitting footwear.

On average he skipped school once a week. In the beginning he had forged absentee notes, which wasn’t easy when he had difficulty with his own writing. That earned him several detentions. After that he didn’t bother with forgeries, just left the house as if he was going to school at 8:45 a.m. and went down to the riverside. The school authorities complained to his parents, and for a whole fortnight his mother escorted him to school. Which served to make him a laughing stock with the other boys. That led to bullying. Dad complained to the headmaster for he sympathized with Marcel. No wonder the boy ducked school, he was scared to attend!

Because Marcel was fast becoming a problem pupil and it was impossible to eradicate playground bullying totally, the school authorities took the easy way out. They turned a blind eye to Marcel’s absenteeism so long as it didn’t exceed more than one day a week. In the long term it wouldn’t affect his education for he was remedial and the most he could hope for was a labouring job when he left school. Furthermore, there was a lot less disturbance in both the classroom and the playground when the Hart boy wasn’t there!

Marcel became more cunning with his truancy. A school uniform was likely to be spotted around the town and result in some interfering person reporting him to the headmaster. So he took to smuggling his jeans and T-shirt out of the house in a carrier bag and changing down at his riverside hideaway. He kept a fishing rod there too, and when he did not have any money to go to town to play the gaming machines, he fished for most of the day. He could always get some money for a reasonably sized trout, and that gave him a few minutes on one of the fruit machines before it was time to change back into his school uniform and arrive home at the usual time.

If his folks guessed, they didn’t ask questions. Like the school, they took the easy way out. Marcel was tempted to try for two days a week, wondering if he might be pushing his luck. He didn’t want to spoil a good thing.

Okay, he was in the remedial, he was the butt of the teachers’ jokes, and the other kids singled him out for a beating whenever the opportunity arose. But he knew that he was much cleverer than any of them. It had taken him a long time to realize this, to piece together a series of separate events and their consequence.

It began last term when Mr Rosencroft, the head of Remedial, had given him a detention for flicking bogeys in class. God, he hated that old fuddy-duddy bastard. Marcel, smouldering with hate for the teacher throughout the detention period, felt quite ill with his malevolence. It had given him a thumping headache, so that when he arrived home he’d had to go and lie down in his room. The next day he learned that Rosencroft had crashed his car on the way home; nobody was hurt, but the teacher’s new Renault would be off the road for at least three weeks and the damage was estimated at around eight hundred pounds. Eventually, the insurance company decided to write the vehicle off and Rosencroft had to wait nine weeks for delivery of a replacement.

Then there was Bobby Hinton who always bullied Marcel at the slightest opportunity. One playtime Bobby had kicked him in the balls when nobody was looking and left him writhing in agony on the ground. And that fool Tolson, who was supposed to be on break time duty but instead spent all his time chatting up Miss Averill, the art teacher, had refused to believe Marcel. Hinton denied the incident and nothing was done about it. Marcel had fumed with hate for the bully for the rest of the day. That evening Bobby Hinton had fallen off a garage roof and broken his leg. It was quite a time before he was able to resume his bullying tendencies.

And, as an added bonus, Bryan Tolson got Tracey Averill pregnant; he had to move to another school and she was forced to give up her teaching job.

Marcel trembled with excitement as he traced one incident after another in his mind. PC Jefferson was always looking for trouble. He delighted in catching youngsters breaking the law because they couldn’t give him a good hiding. It was he who had caught Marcel stealing the milk money that some woman had put out in an envelope with her empty bottles on a Friday evening. The next night Jefferson had been beaten up by some lager louts, had needed eleven stitches in his head, and was off sick for three weeks.

God, it was unbelievable! Marcel needed to convince himself that it was not simply a string of coincidences. Now, after the latest thefts, his parents had forbidden him to go out in the evenings. Dad had even put a lock on his bedroom window to stop him from climbing out.

He was tired of playing with his computer – after a time the basic games became so easy that he won every one. Bored, he lay on his bed, craving a cigarette but his mother had even taken his cigarettes and matches away. His thoughts eventually turned to Mr Godfrey who lived in one of the council houses further up the road. A bad-tempered, bald-headed old bugger, Godfrey had confiscated one of Marcel’s arrows when it thudded into his front door, threatening to report him to the police. Well, Marcel would see if he could get his own back on Mr Bloody Godfrey!

In his mind the boy saw the victim of his malevolent thoughts, the lined and ill-tempered features, the way his lips pouted, and how he dribbled when he became angry. Marcel made a concerted effort to concentrate, and his entire body trembled, becoming rigid. Sweat oozed out of his pores, his head began to ache, his vision became blurred and distorted. You miserable old louse, I wish you were dead!

It lasted maybe half an hour, at the end of which time Marcel had a headache of migraine proportions. He felt so weak and drained that when his mother came upstairs just after ten o’clock and told him that he could come down and get some supper if he wanted any, he declined. The following morning he did not go to school for he slept most of the day.

And later that evening Marcel learned that Mister Godfrey had collapsed in the road on his way to bingo. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.

It was all very thrilling. Marcel was tempted to pick off his enemies one by one but he decided to take his time, savour them. There was no hurry.

Plus he was puzzled by a recurring dream, almost a nightmare. At times it was frightening but it only came in snatches, and when he awoke he remembered very little of it. It had troubled him for years. The first time he could recall it was when he was seven, the time when he had had bronchial pneumonia and had been rushed to the hospital under a feverish hallucination, one in which everywhere it was icy cold but he sweated profusely. He was in some dark and scary place, like the big forest a mile or so out of town where there were always deer to be seen. He had intended to go there with his bow and steel-tipped arrows in the hope of killing some game; venison fetched big money. But somehow he had never got around to it.

Yet he was always there in these frightening dreams. A clearing with fir trees, just enough starlight to make out silhouettes. His parents were there, too, along with several other grownups. None of them wore clothes and it was all very embarrassing although it was really too dark to discern any details. He was naked, too, and he didn’t like that at all, particularly when the adults touched him.

Then a stag had come into the clearing. He thought it was a stag because it had huge horns, but it was human from the neck down. Everybody had thrown themselves to the ground, moaning their terror. Marcel had begun screaming but his mother had clapped her hand over his mouth to stifle his cries. Then she had carried him towards the beast and held him out at arm’s length. That was when he had fainted.

The dream sometimes came weekly, other times it didn’t happen for months. Lately he barely remembered it, he only knew that it had happened because he woke up scared and there was that smell in his bedroom. It was as if some animal had been sleeping in there with him. If he could not remember what the dreams were about, he certainly would never forget the stench.

He had once mentioned it to his mother and she had turned on him angrily.

“It’s no wonder your bedroom stinks,” she snapped. “You don’t wash, we have to force you to have a bath. What the hell d’you expect? You clean yourself up and start behaving like an adult and you won’t get nasty dreams.”

Another thing which Marcel had only recently become aware of was that the nightmares coincided with his thoughts of revenge. He’d had the dream the night Bobby Hinton broke his leg, when PC Jefferson got beaten up, and when that old bugger up the road had dropped dead of a heart attack.

It was intriguing. It was also very frightening. But it gave him a sense of power.

Marcel did not relish the prospect of spending a week up at the Gorlays. He protested vehemently to his mother.

“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous!” Judy Hart’s attractive features hardened with anger. She brushed a strand of long blonde hair from her forehead and stood with her hands on her slim hips. “It’ll be like going to Buckingham Palace for a week compared with this pig hole. You don’t appreciate how lucky you are.”

“What’s the problem?” Tom Hart appeared on the landing behind her, his stocky frame clad in a red singlet and Levis. At forty, his hair was thinning, but he made up for its loss with a bushy black beard that flowed down on to his powerful chest. His cheeks were flushed, his huge fists clenched. Most of the time he was placid, and even gave the appearance of being cultured. But on occasions he could become violent and uncontrollable. In his youth he had served a six-month prison sentence for violence. In a bar quarrel, the other guy had made the mistake of pulling the first punch; the magistrates had overlooked the provocation determining it was no reason to put a man in the hospital for a month.

“Marcel doesn’t want to go up to Rankin and Carol’s,” Judy sighed. “Whatever we want to do, he always has to be so bloody difficult.”

“Doesn’t matter what he wants,” Tom pushed his wife roughly to one side. “Now you see here, boy, you’re going up to Fishmore whether you like it or not. And you’d better like it. We don’t want any of your nonsense. You’ll behave yourself whilst you’re there. And if you take anything or do anything, then when we get back, you’ll have the biggest bloody hiding of your life. The police are getting sick of you. One more incident and they’ll take you away. Get it?”

Marcel stared back defiantly. Suddenly he wasn’t afraid of his father anymore. “It’s funny posh folks like them being friends with the likes of you two,” he spoke sullenly. “Must be somethin’ in it for all of you.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Tom Hart’s hand shot forward, clasping the neck of his son’s pyjamas and jerking him forward. “Come on, what’re you saying?”

“Tom, you’ll hurt him!” But Judy made no move to intervene. Her features had gone deathly white.

“I want to know what this fat wimp is implying!” Tom hissed as he tightened his grip and made Marcel heave. Spittle ran from the boy’s lips. “Come on, let’s hear it!”

“I didn’t mean nothin’,” Marcel choked on his words.

“Well, let’s have no more insinuations.” Tom relaxed his hold. “We’re good friends, nothing more. They’ve done a lot for us. And you. They’ve found me building work and odd jobs all the time I’ve been unemployed. Your mother goes up there to clean the house once a week. Without that you’d go short of a lot. And just you remember that. You’ll live in luxury for a week, and maybe they’ll find you a few jobs to do to help pass the time and pay you for ’em. So what’ve you got to complain about?”

“I don’t like Glenn. Or Cathy.”

“Why not?”

“They’re snobs. They don’t like me, neither.”

“And can you bloody blame ’em? Well brought up kids, clean and honest. And you, you steal and smell. Now, pull yourself together, go and get in that bath and scrub yourself until you’re clean. We’re taking you up there tonight.”

“Where’re you and Mum going, Dad?” Marcel rubbed his neck. He was close to tears.

“Wherever we fancy,” Tom Hart turned away. “No plans. Heading south, probably, maybe Devon and Cornwall. My dole cheque’s come through today, and Rankin has paid me up-to-date, your mother as well. This time we’re really going to enjoy ourselves. Without you! We’ve hired a car, we’ll just keep on motoring, no particular destination in mind. When we see a place we like, we’ll pull in and camp up for the night. It’s going to be a fine autumn week, and we’ll take that old tent that’s been in the attic since before you were born.”

“Dad, I want to come too.” Marcel was crying openly now, the tears trickling down his flabby cheeks.

“Some chance! Whenever you’re around there’s trouble of some kind. Nobody will know where we are, there’ll be no chance of contacting us. If you go and get yourself locked up or fall into the river and drown, we won’t know anything about it until we get home. So for just one bloody week we’re going to forget all about you!”

“We’d better finish packing, Tom,” Judy plucked at her husband’s wrist. She was trembling, but not because she had anticipated one of Tom’s rages; it was the expression on her son’s face that frightened her, the malevolence that burned through those tears, the sheer evil that smouldered in his pale blue eyes.

She turned away and ran for the stairs.

Three

Friday evening

“Mother, does Marcel have to share my room?” There was a note of protest in Glenn’s voice that bordered on defiance.

“I’m sorry, darling, really I am,” Carol felt a twinge of guilt for this was something she had avoided telling her son, hoping he would realize it on his own. Obviously the sleeping arrangements for the forthcoming week had not occurred to him until now. “But he can’t share Cathy’s room or ours. The decorators were supposed to have finished the spare bedroom this week but they had to go away on an emergency. Somebody had a house fire and it was important that these poor people have their place made habitable as soon as possible, so we agreed that they could leave the spare bedroom for a couple of weeks or so. It’s just one of those things. Please try to understand and just put up with Marcel. If he gets to be a pain, your father will sort him out. We’ve a strict understanding with the Harts that there’s not going to be any nonsense.”

“But he smells, he doesn’t wash!”

“He will this week, I promise you. And there’s something else I want to ask you, Glenn.”

“What’s that?” The boy was immediately suspicious. Surely agreeing to Marcel sharing his bedroom was more than enough in the way of concessions.

“I want you to stick with him all week.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“I’m sorry, dear, but you know what he’s like. I’m going to try to take you both out as much as possible, but I don’t want you to let him out of your sight. I can’t risk the embarrassment of any shoplifting or vandalism. And I don’t want any accidents. All right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good. And make sure you don’t leave any money lying around. Hang on, I think this is Tom and Judy arriving with him now.”

“I thought they weren’t bringing him until tomorrow.” Glenn glanced at his watch. It was just after ten p.m.

“They weren’t, but apparently they managed to get the hired car from nine o’clock tonight so they thought they’d start this evening.”

“It gets bloomin’ worse by the minute,” Glenn turned back into his room. No way was he going downstairs to greet his unwelcome companion for the coming week.

Remus, the Gorlay’s ageing and blind yellow Labrador was barking in the hallway. Carol hesitated halfway down the stairs; Remus always barked when visitors arrived but not quite like this. The dog was going crazy, growling and snarling, his usual warning yelp deep and menacing.

“Remus!” Rankin came through from the living room and shouted at the animal but Remus ignored him. He stood a yard or so from the door, hackles risen, his bark subsiding to a low, threatening growl. “Come back, stupid creature!”

The doorbell chimed. Rankin grabbed Remus by the collar, and it was all that he could do to hold him. Carol pushed past to open the door.

Glenn listened from up above, and for some reason the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. He heard voices but he couldn’t decipher what was being said because Remus was making such a noise. He concluded that Tom and Judy weren’t coming inside, they were rushing off to whatever destination they had in mind. If Marcel was there, as doubtless he was, then he didn’t speak. Rankin was reprimanding Remus, Carol was apologizing for the dog. The door closed. A car started up in the driveway and backed out on to the road. Remus was still growling.

Glenn closed the door of his room, then switched on his stereo. He hoped Marcel wouldn’t be coming up to bed just yet.

Rankin pushed Remus into the lounge and closed the door on him. “Sorry about that, Marcel, he’ll get used to you.” Hopefully. Right now Remus had taken an avid dislike to their visitor. “Go on through into the kitchen with Carol, she’ll give you some supper.”

Rankin felt decidedly ill-at-ease. Up until now he had tolerated the boy for the sake of their friendship with the Harts but Marcel’s expression was anything but friendly. Sure, the lad was clean for once, he even wore a new pair of jeans and his T-shirt had been washed. But it was obvious that his parents had brought him here under pressure.

“I’m okay.”

“Oh … fine.” He noticed a square bulge in the pocket of the boy’s Levis. Cigarettes. Well, Glenn certainly wouldn’t stand for smoking in his bedroom. “Tea, coffee?”

“Orange. So long as it isn’t diet. Or coke.”

“Carol will fix you up, I’m sure.” Rankin turned away, went through to his study. Ignorant little bastard!

“Orange squash or coke, Marcel?” In the kitchen Carol’s mouth had suddenly gone dry. There was something almost frightening about their visitor. It was his eyes, the way he regarded her unblinkingly, with such hostility. Well, I didn’t ask you to come here, I only agreed to have you.

“Orange.”

She went to the cupboard, poured some squash into a tumbler, then filled it up with water from the tap. “I hope we’re all going to have a good week, Marcel.”

“We might.” He slurped noisily, draining the glass without taking it from his lips. He put it on the table, then just stood there. There was no mistaking the defiance in his posture.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to share a room with Glenn. The decorators haven’t finished the spare bedroom yet.”

“My dad does his own decorating.”

“That’s fine.” There was no mistaking the inference to class distinction—it jabbed her like a barb. That was nasty for there had never been any social barriers between the two families. It was like Marcel was trying to erect them now. “Just a few basic rules so that we all get on. No smoking in the house. If you must smoke, then Rankin will let you have a cigarette in his study, under his supervision. Lights out at eleven, Glenn often puts his out before then if he’s tired. Wash your hands before every meal and a bath or a shower every night.”

“Shit!”

“And I’d be grateful if you’d curb your language. We all swear on occasions, but we don’t use four-letter words in the course of everyday conversation here. Got it?”

“There’s a late night movie I want to watch.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to miss it. Or, as a compromise, if you ask Glenn he’ll probably videotape it for you.”

“It’s on satellite.”

“We don’t have satellite here.”

Marcel clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Just my luck. What’re we going to do tomorrow?”

“I haven’t decided yet. It depends on the weather, but I’ll probably take you and Glenn out somewhere.”

Marcel’s lips moved into a hint of a smile, but his eyes remained impassive.

“Now, you go on up to see Glenn. He’s in his room, the end door on the landing.”

“I’ll have to have a cigarette before I go to bed.”

She took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. “You’d better ask Rankin’s permission. And tap on his door before you go barging in there.”

Carol discovered that she was trembling slightly. And it wasn’t just because she was angry.

Carol could smell cigarette smoke seeping into the kitchen. She noticed it because it was a different aroma from Rankin’s Stuyvesants; heavier, more acrid, akin to pipe smoke. Home rolls, she wrinkled her nose, strong and aromatic. She didn’t approve of the habit in any form and there was no way she would have allowed her own children to smoke, particularly not in the house. But hand-rolling was worse in a way, because it required effort and was so deliberate.

She coughed. It was time Marcel went up to bed. She hoped that there would not be any bother for Glenn was not in the mood to tolerate any silliness. Doubtless, Rankin would send their young guest upstairs as soon as he had finished his cigarette.

She reached into the bread bin. She and Rankin always had a sandwich together before retiring, a routine which allowed them to relax for half an hour. Damn, the sliced bread was all gone, she’d have to cut some bread. She took out a loaf, found the bread board, and searched for a knife.

It was then that she knew she was being watched, felt that inexplicable, uneasy sensation that sent prickles up her spine. She tensed, her pulse speeding up. It wasn’t Rankin. Or Glenn. Or Cathy. She would have known if it was any of her own family because they wouldn’t have done this to her.

It was Marcel, of course.

He stood just inside the kitchen doorway, watching her with that same unnerving stare, his unblinking eyes following her every movement. She started. His very presence made her angry as if he had deliberately sneaked in here to spy on her. Which he doubtless had.

“Marcel, you made me jump!” It was a mild reprimand, her tone one of shock and anger.

He did not reply, just stood there looking at her.

“It’s your bedtime, Marcel,” Carol’s voice trembled slightly. There was no sign of Rankin, who was probably still working in his room, maybe writing a follow-up feature to the one on satanic child abuse.

“I don’t usually go to bed until after twelve, often later.” There was no mistaking the defiance in his words. He was throwing down a challenge.

“Not here.” She grasped the bread knife, held the loaf with her other hand. “I told you …”

For one frightening moment it was as if she was incapable of tearing her gaze away from his. Those pale blue eyes fixed on hers, held her. “I don’t want to go to bed yet.”

Rankin would soon sort him out. He’d boot his backside all the way up the stairs if he refused to go! With hindsight she should have laid the knife down on the unit, marched straight out of the kitchen, and fetched her husband. Instead, she went to slice the loaf, her eyes still fixed on that arrogant, infuriating boy.

Too late! Carol sensed what was about to happen but there was no way she could stop it. The serrated blade of the breadknife came down, through her flesh, her full weight upon the handle.

She screamed. Only then were her frightened eyes released from that hypnotic power, in time to see a fountain of scarlet arterial blood jet upwards, spraying over her and splattering the vinyl working surface and the cupboards above it.

She was screaming hysterically, her vision blurred with a mist that was streaked with crimson. But it did not obscure her view of Marcel. He just stood there watching, his lips twitching with the hint of a gloating smile. His eyes shone with sadistic delight, seeming to say “I did that.”

Suddenly the kitchen was crowded with Rankin in his jeans and slippers grabbing up a tea towel, trying to stem the jetting blood from the jagged wound in her wrist, and Cathy rushing to help. Glenn stood in the doorway, wide-eyed with horror.

Only Marcel did not move, just stood there watching.

“Doctor,” Rankin muttered, making a tourniquet with a second tea towel and letting Carol lean her weight on him. “This will need stitching. Glenn, ring the casualty unit at the hospital, tell them we’re on our way in now. Cathy, come with us to look after your mother in the back of the car. Marcel … you stay right here.” And don’t touch or do anything until we get back!

They made it to the hospital inside five minutes. Carol was shown straight into the treatment room; Rankin and Cathy stayed in the waiting room.

Within a quarter of an hour a white-faced and shaken Carol emerged, her wrist bandaged.

“She’ll be all right,” the bland-featured, white-coated doctor spoke to Rankin. “A good night’s rest and she shouldn’t use that arm for a day or two.”

It could have been worse. Even so all three of them felt weak, drained.

“It was Marcel’s fault.” Carol’s words came out in a frightened rush. “He sort of … hypnotized me. He deliberately made me cut myself!”

Neither of her family spoke which was a clear indication, Carol thought, that they agreed with her. Rankin backed the car out onto the road and into an autumnal mist that was seeping up from the river. There would soon be a thick fog.

“I hope Glenn’s all right.” Carol did not like leaving her son alone in the house with Marcel. There was no knowing what further mischief the Hart boy might have gotten up to in their absence.

“He’ll be okay, he can look after himself.” Rankin was forced to slow to a crawl and lowered the headlights because the swirling, grey vapour was bouncing the full beam back at him. “He can look after himself. Oh, shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve just missed the damned turn. I’ll have to go up to the end of the road to turn around.”

Carol stared through the windscreen with frightened eyes. Everything looked the same, streetlamps every fifty yards or so, houses that stood back from the road, vague silhouettes. They could have been anywhere. It was like some nightmare where you got lost and kept going around in circles. She wanted to scream her frustration. Which was damned stupid because there was nothing wrong, Rankin had just gone past the turn.

It was Marcel that was doing this to her. Cutting her wrist was only the start. It was like he had … possessed her.

“Here we are.” Rankin swung the wheel over, and she felt the car begin to negotiate the steep road up to Fishmore View. That was when she tightened her uninjured fist into a ball and felt her stomach churn.

Oh, God, I’ve got to go home to that!

Four

“Hey, steady on!”

Rankin had not expected Carol to leap out of the car the moment he pulled up in the driveway. The passenger door was left open and there was no mistaking her panic as she ran for the oak-panelled front door and hit it with her shoulder as she turned the knob with her uninjured hand.

“Glenn!”

Oh, thank goodness, he was all right! Sure, he looked worried and bewildered as he came into the hall from the kitchen. She looked beyond him; there was no sign of Marcel.

“Where’s Marcel?”

“Mother, are you all right?”

“Where’s Marcel?”

“Upstairs,” Glenn looked taken aback. “He went up to bed soon after you left. I waited downstairs.” Because I hate being in the same room as him.

Carol suddenly felt faint again and clutched at the stair rail as the hallway seemed to gyrate.

“Here, easy on, what’s got into you?” Rankin’s arm came around her waist; Cathy was there, Glenn, too. They were all crowding around her, their expressions anxious.

“That boy, somebody go up and check on him.” But don’t look into his eyes because you know what he did to me.

“I’ll look.” Carol heard Cathy’s footsteps go up the stairs and cross the landing above. A door opened and closed. Now she was coming back down again.

“He’s asleep.” There was relief in the teenager’s voice. She added, “At least, he’s lying in bed with his eyes closed.”

There was a moment of silence for they all felt the tension. Carol smelled a faint odour of stale sweat. It could have come from any one of them after tonight, but she found herself blaming Marcel. Whatever went wrong from now on, Marcel would be blamed.

“I’ll make some tea,” Cathy went through into the kitchen.

“You can have a drink, too, Glenn.” Carol’s dizziness had passed and she disengaged herself from Rankin making an effort to throw off a feeling of self-pity. No way was she going to allow herself to be frightened of Marcel Hart. He was just a fat slob.

“He distracted you, that was all.” Rankin put into words what all of them wanted to hear. He just had to make them believe it. “He’s got this annoying habit of mooching around like a bloody ghoul. Okay, I don’t like the way he stares at you, but it’s nothing to be scared of. He’s just plain bloody ignorant. We won’t change that so we’ve just got to try to ignore it. Tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ve got a bit of work to catch up on but I should be done by midday. We’ll go off somewhere and if he gets playing up, I’ll be around to deal with him.”

Carol nodded. His words made her feel easier even if she didn’t believe them all. “All right, we’ll go out tomorrow. Now, I think it’s time that everybody went to bed. Off you go, Glenn, and if Marcel begins making a nuisance of himself, you’ve only got to call us.”

Reluctantly, Glenn headed for the stairs.

Glenn crept into his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so that the landing light gave him enough light to see by. Marcel lay in the single bed opposite his own, turned to face the wall. If he wasn’t asleep then he was giving a bloody good imitation of it, Glenn decided. He didn’t care so long as the other stayed that way.

Glenn carefully climbed into bed and tried to avoid the creaking of springs. God, there was a stink of B.O. in the room. He’d thought he could smell it downstairs. The little bugger needed a good scrub down and deodorant sprayed all over him.

Glenn turned over and began to count the nights remaining when he would have his unwelcome guest sharing his room. Seven, not counting tonight, and if the Harts didn’t fetch their son home until Sunday that made eight!

This was all Dad’s doing. Mother wouldn’t have agreed if she’d had the final say. It was a funny set-up, this relationship of his parents’ with the Harts. Some of the boys at school thought it was a joke, a leading local journalist and his wife hobnobbing with a couple on a council estate, going out as a foursome most Saturday nights, sometimes in the week as well. There were insinuations, dirty jokes, and just thinking about them made Glenn embarrassed.

“They’re wife swapping,” Timmy Evans had said, provoking a burst of raucous laughter from the others. “You wanna hope your mother doesn’t get pregnant, Glenn, or you might have a half-brother just like Marcel!”

“They probably have foursomes every Saturday night, Glenn,” Eddie Jones capitalized on the mirth his friend had caused. “You know, all of ’em in the nude and takin’ pics with a Polaroid as they screw. You ask your mum to show you a photo of your dad screwing Marcel’s mother. Or maybe they hire a video camera and capture all the action!”

Glenn had stopped going out into the playground at break time. He couldn’t stand the jibes any longer. Because he wondered just what the Gorlays and the Harts did have in common. He preferred not to think about it. Having Marcel here made it worse.

Marcel wasn’t asleep, Glenn could hear the rustle of bedclothes, the other’s breathing. It sounded like he might have asthma.

“You awake, Glenn?” With a coarse whisper, Marcel turned over facing the other bed.

Glenn did not reply.

“You’re awake, I know it.”

“So what?”

“You thought I was asleep, didn’t you?” A mocking laugh.

“Look, we’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Well, I am!” Glenn heard the other getting out of bed. “We’ve had an upsetting time. My mother cut her wrist, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I saw the blood, it shot right up to the top of the kitchen cupboards.” There was a hint of gloating in Marcel’s voice.

“Just shut up, will you!”

There was silence for a moment then Glenn felt Marcel’s weight on the bed and the springs creaked as he sat down. Glenn tensed.

“Glenn, d’you wank?”

Glenn felt his body go rigid, his stomach muscles knotted.

“Well, do you?”

“Piss off, Marcel, and let me go to sleep. If my Dad catches you out of bed he’ll tan your arse.”

“He won’t hear. You haven’t answered my question.”

“And I’m not going to.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“All right. No.”

“You’re a fucking liar, and if you don’t, then it’s time you did. Look, let me show you …”

“Fuck off!”

Marcel’s fingers were grasping the sheets, starting to pull them back. Glenn’s hand grasped his wrist. “Don’t you bloody dare!”

“I’ll tell you something,” Marcel was undeterred. “ I’ve had it with a girl. And I’ll tell you her name. Ella Pritchard.”

That figured, Glenn thought. Ella was a deprived girl in the remedial. Her father was currently serving a prison sentence for burglary, her mother had moved in with another man. Ella was scruffier than Marcel, and there were rumours about her at school, how she went down to the playing field with boys during the lunch hour. Fat and spotty, she lived on chips, mostly bought for her in return for favours. All the same, Glenn didn’t believe a lot of the stories boys like Marcel bragged about.

“I’m not really interested, Marcel.”

“You would be if you got the chance. Still, if you don’t even wank …”

“Piss off! Get back to bed or I’m going to fetch my dad, and I mean it!”

“I hate your dad and mine, too.” Marcel backed off, and stood there in the half light. Through the curtains a shaft of misty streetlight fell on his features. Glenn gasped for he was reminded of a stone gargoyle, a leering hideousness that epitomized evil.

“I don’t care whether you like or hate your father. Or mine. That’s your business.”

“You wouldn’t like them if you knew what I know.” He had a look of smugness on his face that was frightening. “Our mums are as bad.”

“Aw, shaddup.” Glenn turned over. He was trembling. He didn’t want to hear whatever it was the other knew, true or false.

“Your dad fucks with my mum, and my dad screws your mum. See?”

“That’s a lie. You’ve been listening to malicious gossip at school.”

“That’s what you think, but I know. Because they screw on Saturdays when they send me to stay with my gran. But one night I came back because I’d forgotten my cigarettes. I crept up the stairs and listened on the landing. They were using both bedrooms. Tell you what, Glenn, I heard your mum coming and didn’t she make a noise, just like …”

“Shut up or I’ll fucking kill you!”

Glenn sat up, threw back the bedclothes, and would have driven his clenched fist into that grinning face with all his strength except that at that moment he heard a door open out on the landing. Padded footsteps sounded, then the landing light came on.

Marcel dived back on to his bed, landing with a creaking of springs, and sliding down between the sheets. The door was flung open, and Rankin stood there wearing just a pair of boxer shorts.

“What the hell’s going on?” He flooded the room with light, staring at Glenn. Marcel was lying with his eyes closed, apparently oblivious to the disturbance. “Glenn?”

“He’s playing up.” Glenn’s hand shook as he pointed to the other bed.

“Marcel!” Rankin advanced a step. The form beneath the bedclothes stirred. His head came round and he squinted through half-closed eyes. “What’re you up to, Marcel?”

“I was asleep. You just woke me.” It sounded plausible. He yawned. “I wanna go back to sleep.”

“Then you make sure you do just that!” Rankin’s features were grim. “You too, Glenn.” He took the soft option, the one he had learned when Glenn and Cathy were toddlers and had other children round to play. Somebody misbehaved so you blamed your own child, hoped that the miscreant got the message, even felt guilty. Unfair, but it usually worked. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of either of you!”

The lights went out and the bedroom door opposite closed with a bang.

Marcel sniggered under the sheets. “He thinks it’s you causing trouble, Glenn. I wouldn’t raise your voice again if I were you, else you might get a bunch of fives in the face.”

“My dad never hits me. He doesn’t need to,” Glenn retorted with an angry whisper. “Go to sleep, you dirty-minded little dork.”

“I got some unfinished business to attend to,” the other laughed. “You listen carefully, Glenn, and if you’re not a fucking liar you might just learn something.”

The bedsprings began to creak rhythmically. Glenn turned over, faced away from his companion, his hands screwing the linen into balls, squeezing them until they were damp with his sweat. There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight.

*  *  *

Sleep eluded Cathy. Ten years ago she might have tried counting sheep but she had long grown out of such futile efforts to encourage slumber. Her brain was over-active, and no wonder! At half past nine she had been so exhausted she had intended to go on up to bed. Instead she had stayed in the lounge watching a play on television. She couldn’t even remember what it was about, some hospital drama that had had her nodding off and then had become reality midway through.

Her nerves were stretched taut. They had had to shut Remus in the conservatory because he wouldn’t stop growling. He had barked at first then given up and accepted his lot. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, it was that damned boy that had caused all the trouble!

He was horrible in every respect. He smoked, swore, ate noisily, slurped his drinks, lied, cheated, stole and gambled—she didn’t dare to think of what other despicable habits he might have.

She couldn’t for the life of her understand her parents’ friendship with the Harts. Tom and Judy were okay but they didn’t have much in common with her folks. She wondered what they talked about when they went out drinking or for a meal. Dad was a first-class journalist, well-read, Tom was an unemployed jack-of-all-trades, principally a moonlighter. He worked at gardening, building, lorry driving, window cleaning, anything that earned him an illicit quid which the social security people didn’t know about. Judy cleaned one of the cafes in town and went through the house here once or twice a week. Bubbly, full of fun, she and Mother went to keep fit on Fridays and joined in other various activities together. It was all very odd but it was none of Cathy’s business. Marcel was the joker in the pack. He caused trouble in both camps.

Just having him in the house was unnerving. He made her tense, wondering what he might suddenly do. His unpredictability knew no limits. A person couldn’t settle down with him around. It was unfair of Dad to have him here just when she was studying for her mock A levels.

It was no good, she couldn’t sleep. Those two boys in the room at the other end of the landing had been whispering and mucking about ever since they had come up to bed. She was on the point of going out on to the landing and shouting to them to be quiet when her father beat her to it. After that, an uneasy silence settled over the house. In a lot of ways it was worse for it had you listening to hear if anything was still going on.

Then Remus began to howl downstairs, a mournful, chilling sound. He had never done that before in all the years the Gorlays had had him. He barked, growled, whined, but he had never howled.

A sudden disturbing thought nagged her, something she had once heard or read somewhere, but she couldn’t remember where. When a dog howled it was a sign that somebody was going to die.

Carol was restless. Rankin could always sense when she was having a bad night even when she lay still and tried not to disturb him.

“Hurting is it, love?” He put an arm around her and kissed her neck.

“Not really.” She was tense, every nerve and muscle in her body taut. “The painkillers take care of that. It’s everything else that worries me.”

“I’m sorry about Marcel, it was selfish of me. I never thought it would be as bad as this.”

“It’s not just him I’m worried about,” she snuggled close to him. “It’s Tom and Judy.”

“Our relationship with them?”

“Not just that. I’ve gotten used to it, even learned to enjoy it.”

“It was selfish of me to drag you into it.”

“Maybe, but they’ve changed recently. Or haven’t you noticed?”

He thought about it. “You mean they’ve gone out by themselves more lately, something they never used to do?”

“Partly. We’re supposed to believe that they’ve popped up town for a drink but if you mention it they avoid saying where exactly they’ve been. Like if they said they’d been up to the Angel, we might meet somebody who’d been in there that night who might tell us the Harts weren’t there. Like they’ve gone somewhere else but don’t want us to know. It’s just a feeling I get, that’s all.”

“Another couple?”

“Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” Rankin was unsure now, little things fitting which he hadn’t noticed before. In a way he wished that his wife hadn’t brought it to his attention.

“I wish I knew where they were really going this week.”

“Touring. Camping.”

“On a foggy autumn week? That’s what really makes me wonder, plus the fact that they were so elusive about it. If they didn’t want to be pestered by anybody from home, at least you’d’ve thought they would have arranged to phone us one evening, just to check that everything’s all right. If not for Marcel’s sake, then at least for ours. Damn it all, they know what they’ve let us in for!”

“I guess so.” Rankin was restless now. He lapsed into silence, listening. Those boys had quietened down after his outburst. That was the way to deal with Marcel and he’d keep it up all week if necessary. For Carol’s sake.

“Now bloody Remus is howling!” Carol groaned.

“It’s because he’s still shut in the conservatory. With this business performance tonight, I forgot to let him back into the kitchen.”

“I hope that’s all it’s about.”

“I’ll go down and let him in.”

“No, don’t bother. He’ll probably just start barking again. Let’s just hope he’ll shut up in a minute.”

“Like I said, we’ll go out tomorrow, maybe Sunday as well. We’ll get away from this place.”

Carol did not reply. Wherever they went, there was no getting away from Marcel.

Remus stopped howling shortly afterwards. Like Cathy, Carol found the nocturnal silence menacing.

Five

Saturday

Rankin awoke with a headache, a niggling throbbing behind the eyes which would probably worsen as the day progressed. He glanced at Carol and saw she was sleeping peacefully. The digital bedside clock showed that it was 8:15 a.m.

They had overslept which was not surprising. He lay listening, hearing only the distant noise of traffic on the road below the estate. No quarrelling boys’ voices, no canine barking or howling. Yet.

He eased himself carefully off the bed, tiptoed to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Outside, a thick grey vapour obliterated the view of the town, so that he could barely see across the road. The autumnal mist of last night had become an early morning fog. If the weather forecasters were correct, the sun would disperse it in an hour or so and the day would be bright and clear.

Still clad in only his boxer shorts he went downstairs. Remus was scratching impatiently at the conservatory door.

“In you come, lad.” He slid the catch and the Labrador pushed past him and made straight for the foot of the stairs. The dog’s hackles were erect, its head was uplifted. “No, you don’t, we’re not having that all over again!” Rankin grabbed the dog firmly and dragged him back. “You kept everybody awake last night, I don’t want them disturbed just yet.” If only it was possible for Marcel to sleep through until next week it would solve everybody’s problems.

Remus cringed, his tail curled beneath his body. There was no mistaking his posture of fear.

Rankin switched on the kettle, deciding not to take Carol a cup of tea just yet. She needed her sleep. In the meantime he had some copy to edit and he would drop it into the office later on their way to …

Where?

The opportunity for a day out arose rarely. It was no wonder he couldn’t think of anywhere to go. Because of Marcel, their possibilities were limited. Rankin took a cup of tea to his study. Maybe a destination would spring to mind later. In the meantime …

Somebody was coming downstairs. Through the gap in the partly open door he saw that it was Marcel, the other’s overweight pyjama-clad body moving with a disturbing furtiveness as he headed for the kitchen.

Remus growled threateningly and retreated to the most distant corner. The dog was clearly terrified of Marcel, and that had tiny icy shivers edging their way up Rankin’s spine.

“Morning, Marcel.” Rankin moved into the hall and saw how the other started, his cheeks reddening with surprise and guilt. “Can I get you something? Muesli? Cornflakes? The kettle’s just boiled if you want a cup of tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.” Marcel’s eyes fixed on him. His attitude of the previous night had not altered. For no apparent reason other than that he had been forced to spend a week here, he was sullen and resentful.

“Where’s Glenn?”

“Still asleep.”

“I see. All right, I’ll go and wake the others, we’re going out later.” Because I don’t want you mooching round the house unsupervised. Remus growled his agreement low in his throat. “Wait there, I’ll be back in a second.”

Marcel was not there when Rankin came back downstairs. He was standing by the kitchen cupboards, eating noisily, spraying crumbs down himself and on the floor. One hand was behind his back, attempting to hide whatever he had decided to breakfast upon.

“What’re you eating, Marcel?” Damn the boy, he was pushing his luck.

“You said to help myself.”

“Yes,” Rankin sighed, “but I’d still like to see what you’re eating.”

Reluctantly, defiantly, the other brought his hand into view. His fingers could scarcely hold the pile of custard cream biscuits; there were surely seven or eight in his grasp.

“That’s really rather greedy of you, Marcel. There are four others in this family.”

“You said I could get what I liked.”

Jesus! “All right. Carol will be down in a minute. You’re not to go outside.” He turned on his heel, stalked back to his study, and slammed the door. It was with no small amount of relief that he heard Carol coming downstairs.

Rankin tried to settle down to his work. The following week’s issue of the Advertiser was devoting two whole pages to readers’ letters relating to the current issue of child satanic abuse. It would help sell the paper, and it would also add fuel to the witch-hunt that was building up. The majority of correspondence was against intervention by social workers and police, but several were adamant that children in suspected incidents of devil worship should be removed to a place of safety pending investigations. The whole thing was getting blown out of proportion, Rankin decided. All this could well end in a series of dawn swoops. He felt guilty for obviously his attempts to present a balanced view of the issue had created factions. But he had gone too far to turn back. All he could do was to write an editorial comment, and hope that some readers would see sense.

Right now this small town was living with an emotive time bomb in its midst. It could explode at any time.

“That boy’s scoffed all the biscuits and drunk most of a litre bottle of coke.” Carol came into the study, closing the door behind her. “He’s just sitting there in the kitchen watching me. I can’t stand it any longer!” She was overwrought. “Look, we have to go out somewhere.”

“Of course.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I thought maybe we’d go to the zoo.” The idea came to him suddenly. At this time of the year the zoo wouldn’t be crowded, and it was a good eighty miles from here which would use up four or five hours of the day.

“All right.” She clutched at any escape route. “I don’t expect Cathy will want to come. She can stay here and take Remus for a walk later. He isn’t helping matters but I don’t blame him for taking a dislike to that little creep. How long will you be?”

“Give me an hour,” Rankin replied. “Where’s Glenn?”

“Still upstairs, refusing to come down.” Carol glanced heavenwards.

“Well, he can damned well get dressed. He’s coming, whether he likes it or not. We’re not going to be stuck with Marcel just to ourselves all day!”

For some reason the Subaru refused to start. Rankin rolled it back out of the garage, tried the starter again but the engine didn’t fire. He lifted the hood. Everything seemed fine underneath, as neat and clean as a three-month-old engine should be. This was his third model in succession and he had never experienced any problems before.

“Got any petrol in the tank?”

Rankin jumped and banged his head on the uplifted hood. The last thing he wanted was that idiot of a boy offering advice. He didn’t reply. He hadn’t heard Marcel come out of the house. The other had crept up on him in his usual unnerving manner.

“Try it again, it might go this time.”

Which I was just about to do, and now it’ll look like I’m taking your idiotic advice.

The car started, the engine steadying to a sweet tickover.

“I told you it would.” Marcel was munching crisps. Rankin wondered if Carol was aware that he had taken a packet. But right now all he wanted to do was to get away from here.

Carol looked out the window and noticed that the fog had thinned to give way to a cloudless blue sky, the autumn sunshine glinting on the reddish golden leaves of the line of copper beeches. A carpet of horse chestnut leaves lay on the grass, piled up in the gutters. It was the kind of day when one could really feel at peace with the world, Carol thought, if you didn’t happen to be stuck with Marcel Hart.

She had had a confrontation with Glenn. He had adamantly refused to come out for the day with them. She had had to fetch Rankin to force their son to get dressed; the boy had argued further about having to sit in the back of the car with their unwelcome guest.

“Well, you’ll damned well have to put up with him, we’ve got to!” Rankin was exasperated. “Your mother can’t ride in the back seat, it makes her sick. Take a book, a comic, anything. You don’t have to talk to him or even look at him. In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t!”

They started out shortly after that and Rankin dropped his copy in at the office.

Next stop the zoo, two hours hence. In the meantime Glenn was sitting at the furthermost point of the back seat, face smudged against the side window in a silent protest against his companion. Marcel had taken advantage of the extra space available and edged into the middle.

“Put your seat belt on, Marcel,” Rankin watched in the rear-view mirror and saw the other’s expression of rebelliousness. “If you’re going to sit there then you’ll have to use the lap belt.”

“I’m all right.”

“Put it on! It’s law now.”

Marcel obeyed, as slowly as possible.

Steve Rayner had worked at the small suburban zoo for the last five years. Originally, he had come here as a student for the summer holidays but life amongst the animals held a far greater appeal for him than the vague possibility of a degree in economics. So he had stayed, against his family’s wishes. Even the zoo’s owner had warned him that the very best he could hope for was the head keeper’s job and Weston had another fifteen years to go before he retired.

Steve was happy, assistant or head keeper, it made little difference to him so long as he was in close contact with the animals. The pay was minimal, his accommodation with the Westons spartan, but as he spent every available hour in the zoo, his only needs were food and somewhere to sleep. If he’d had money, he wouldn’t have had time to spend it. Even the most menial tasks were enjoyable for him; you never stopped learning and he was determined to build up a personal relationship with every one of the inmates.

Steve was slight of build but his wiry strength belied his stature. He could carry a hundredweight sack of animal feed with apparent ease, and when Lawson, the vet, needed a strong hand to help with a difficult patient, he called upon Steve rather than the burly Weston. And if the head keeper secretly resented this, then he was quite prepared to let his assistant do the heavy work.

Steve was concerned about Kahindra, the young Indian elephant. He had noticed her limping yesterday and had mentioned it to Weston.

“Probably a strain,” the head keeper had dismissed it nonchalantly. “The next time Lawson’s here we can ask him to have a look at her. No point in fetching him specially, this place can’t afford purpose calls for trivialities.”

“It’s probably a thorn off those branches you put in the elephant house last week.” Steve hadn’t intended it as a criticism but the younger man saw from his superior’s expression that it had been taken as one. “We could take a quick look at her. She’s a darling. She’ll stand still while I lift her leg and you can have a looksee.”

“I’m too bleedin’ busy,” the other grunted and turned away. “Like I said, leave it till Lawson comes. He’s got a small job to do on Sabre, he can look then.”

Steve had woken in the night and thought about Kahindra. The elephant was definitely in distress. He was sure it was a thorn in her pad. It might fester, and she could even die from septicaemia as Tola, the lion cub, had died last year after cutting himself on a piece of rusty wire. That foot needed looking at soon.

Steve promised himself that he would attend to it the next day. Of course, it must be done without Weston’s knowledge. The head keeper was stubborn enough to forbid him to go into the elephant house if he thought his assistant was disobeying orders.

Steve was unusually edgy that foggy Saturday morning when he started his round of feeding. Not that he was frightened of Kahindra, for the young elephant wouldn’t harm a fly unless she trod on it by accident. The task itself presented no real problem, he just had to do it when Weston wasn’t around. Right now Weston was in the elephant and giraffe block forking hay into the racks, so it would have to wait. The other went for his lunch from 1:30 to 2p.m., that was the only opportunity the younger man could think of. It was dark by the time the zoo closed and a light in the elephant house would surely attract attention.

Steve prepared himself in advance, by slipping a pair of tweezers and a tube of antiseptic ointment into the pocket of his overalls. It wouldn’t take more than a minute or two; Kahindra would stand all right, no problem there, and if he spotted the thorn then he could remove it in a second, put some cream on the affected area and the animal would be fine in a few hours. In all probability, Weston would forget that there had ever been anything wrong with her.

The morning dragged. The fog cleared slowly, the sun came out and shone with a warmth that was reminiscent of the summer that had waned. There were a few cars in the parking area by the main entrance, a sprinkling of visitors meandering around the zoo. At this time of year the gate money barely paid for the upkeep of the place, just helped towards the cost of feeding the animals. If the weather held then there was every chance of a reasonable crowd tomorrow; Sunday was always the best day, summer or winter.

Steve was always concerned with visitors, for his economic studies enabled him to cost out the profitability of the zoo; income was vital to the welfare of animals. Without money coming in, there would be cost cutting, not just in jobs but in animals. For some it could mean the death sentence. Weston never thought in those terms. If he had to turn out after hours, he booked overtime.

Steve consulted his watch for the hundredth time—11:50. He checked on the sea lion pool. Some stupid kid was throwing sticks into the water, an overweight lad in jeans and a T-shirt with a silly scarlet baseball hat on his head.

“Oi!” The other turned at Steve’s approach. “Pack that in!”

“Fuck off! ” The boy was already turning to run. Steve glimpsed his face and did not like what he saw; not the features themselves but the expression—one of sheer maliciousness. Evil. The kind that would delight in causing pain and suffering to animals. He blamed the boy’s parents for letting him loose in the park unsupervised.

Steve was not going to bother chasing him. His thoughts were on Kahindra and wondering if Weston had gone for his lunch yet. Further down he could see the elephant outside in its concrete enclosure where she seemed to be leaning up against the iron railings as if to take the weight off her injured foot. The sooner he attended to her the better. Stay right where you are darling, that’ll be fine there, he thought.

There did not appear to be any spectators lining the rail a couple of yards from the elephant run. Steve glanced up and down. Surely Weston would have gone to lunch by now. The other always took his allotted break times promptly and never returned a minute earlier than was necessary.

Steve went in through the tin-roofed shelter and unlocked the stout wooden door. He went through the interior, out into the sunlit concrete yard with its eight-foot railings. Kahindra was still where he had last seen her, her pad lifted clear of the ground. Her small eyes fixed on him, Steve was sure he saw a plea for help in her expression, as if she was saying, “I’ll stand for you and, see, I’ve already got my foot lifted.”

“Good girl,” he approached her slowly, then stroked her trunk. “We’ll soon have you well again, just keep right where you are.”

It was as he felt in his pocket for the tweezers and soothing cream that he saw the face pressed against the bars. He stiffened with surprise and anger. It was that same kid who had been throwing sticks at the sea lions. The other spat a blob of phlegm into the compound.

“Hey, you, get back behind the safety barrier. Can’t you read?”

“No.”

“Look, get back over that rail or I’ll have you chucked out of the zoo!” Steve felt Kahindra twitch. She was in pain and nervous, the last thing he needed was some yobbo causing a disturbance. Right now, though, he had more important matters to attend to. He ignored the kid, and began to lift the elephant’s foot.

Kahindra tensed, resisted him.

“Come on, girl, let Stevie have a look. Please!”

The creature obliged, reluctantly, and lifted its foot another six inches. Steve knelt, twisted his head to one side so that he could see the underside of the huge pad. “Oooh, nasty!” He pursed his lips, fumbled with the tweezers. “One big thorn, like I guessed. Old Weston should take more care with what he chucks in here for you to browse through. Now, just hold still and I’ll have it out in a jiffy. Then we’ll rub some cream on to take away the soreness, and in a few hours you’ll have forgotten that anything was the matter with you.”

Steve grunted with the strain of propping up the foot. A movement attracted his attention, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that boy again, his screwed up features pressed between the bars, tongue protruding, about to blow another raspberry. But there was something about him, something that transcended mischief and sheer naughtiness; there was a malevolence that had Steve catching his breath, distracting his attention. That kid gave him the creeps.

“Look, I’ve got a very delicate job to do, just go away like I told you!”

The predicted raspberry sounded like a monotone kazoo, loud and harsh, vibrating the stillness of the mild autumn day. Steve started, almost lost his grip on the tweezers, then clutched at the elephant to regain his balance. And that was when Kahindra panicked.

The foot came down hard and crushed Steve’s arm beneath it. The trunk swirled, the head was lowered, the elephant became a living battering ram gone berserk. Too fast for the eye to follow, it swept up the helpless zoo assistant, crushed him against the bars, mashing him like a primitive potato chip maker.

Kahindra reared, trumpeted, then charged the bloodied mulch that adhered to the bars, crushed it beyond all recognition. A sticky scarlet morass that oozed blood began to form a pool on the concrete beneath.

The elephant called again, this time a mournful, sorrowful note as if it had suddenly realized what it had done. Its trunk reached out and touched the mutilated body gently in what might have been a gesture of elephantine apology. Its head was bowed, it did not appear to notice the pain in its injured foot any longer.

It even seemed oblivious to the boy on the other side of the railings whose features had broadened into a grin. His eyes were fixed on the crushed, hanging corpse and he watched transfixed as a cloud of blowflies swarmed and settled, then fed noisily on the carnage.

Marcel was glad that he had come to the zoo today, after all.

Six

“Where’s Marcel?” Carol could not remember how many times she had asked that same question since yesterday evening. Whenever she looked round he seemed to have vanished, then she would see him some distance away; once he had been climbing on some spiked railings, another time swinging from a bough of a horse chestnut tree. And just before they entered the reptile house, she had had to stop him from throwing stones at the ducks on the lake. A bunch of mallard ducks had taken to flight, quacking in alarm. Marcel had directed some four-lettered words at her, and if she could have gotten close enough to him she would have slapped him with her good arm.

“I dunno where he is.” Glenn peered into the greenish glow of the subdued lighting in the aquarium and reptile house. It was difficult to recognize silhouettes. “He was looking at the cobras a minute ago.”

Carol shuddered involuntarily. She detested anything that slithered or crawled. It was stupid to come in here. She had voiced her protest at the outset but her husband had overruled her.

He said it would be all right, and that he’d keep an eye on Marcel. He hadn’t.

“I’ll find him, he can’t have gone far.” Rankin tried to sound more confident than he felt, and he began to thread his way through the small crowd, scrutinizing each person as he went. An overweight boy loomed up in front of him, but it wasn’t Marcel, this one was too tall. He was reminded of the supermarket back home where everybody seemed to go out of their way to obstruct you and glared at you when you squeezed past them.

“Excuse me, please!”

Rankin completed his circuit of the block-built house and arrived back at the turnstiles to see a doorway with a neon-lit “exit” above it. Marcel must have gone back outside because he certainly wasn’t inside the reptile house.

One final glance back showed him that Carol and Glenn were somewhere down by the glass-fronted snake cages. He would leave them there for the moment since finding Marcel was a priority.

The bright sunlight dazzled him and he had to wait while his eyesight adjusted, losing valuable seconds. It was then that he heard the siren on the road adjacent to the zoo park.

It was probably just passing by. His pulses raced a little. Perhaps it was going to a road accident further along the busy stretch of dual carriageway. Oh, Christ, it was slowing, turning into the main entrance gates! A police car was following it.

Rankin’s legs went suddenly weak, his imagination conjuring up numerous accidents that might have befallen Marcel. The boy had been climbing trees earlier, as well as playing on the edge of the lake; the water was deep, could he swim? Where Marcel was concerned, anything was possible. Rankin remembered Tom and Judy telling him how their son had climbed a ladder that was propped up against their council house home. When he was almost at the top, the ladder slid sideways. Marcel was thrown into the road. Neighbours screamed, and one woman plucked up the courage to go to his aid. As she approached, Marcel stood up, shook himself, and walked away. Like a cat, he had nine lives. It was just a question of how many he had used up so far.

Rankin found himself hanging back. He was afraid to go across to where the ambulance had pulled in, in case … Oh, God, two policemen were cordoning the area off with red and white tape. The ambulance’s blue light was still flashing. A crowd had gathered, obscuring his view.

Rankin got himself under control because sooner or later he would have to go and find out what had happened. His thoughts speeded on ahead. Perhaps you would be good enough to identify the body for us, Mr Gorlay. Do you happen to know where the boy’s parents can be found? Then, I’m, sorry Tom, Judy, but I’ve got some bad news for you. Very bad.

It didn’t have to be Marcel. On a fine autumn day by lunchtime there were several hundred people in the zoo park. What were the odds of it being Marcel?

A policemen was pushing the crowd back, waving them away. Ghouls. They were the same species that congregated around motorway pile-ups and rail disasters. The sight of blood and mangled bodies drew them from the most unlikely places; here, families out for a day at the zoo suddenly had a bonus.

Rankin approached the scene with trepidation. Everybody had their backs towards him, and those at the rear were stretching, trying to see over those in front.

“Keep back, please!”

Somebody trod on Rankin’s foot, another elbowed him. People were still swelling the crowd as somebody at the front screamed “ Oh, Christ, it’s made fucking chips of him!”

“What … happened?” Rankin closed his eyes as he asked the question and shouted it to anybody who might be listening in the sudden awesome hush. He didn’t expect anybody to answer.

Somebody did.

“One of the keepers. The elephant crushed him up against the railings. Made fucking chips of him. They’re having to scrape him off the bars!”

Rankin thought he might faint, his guts churned, he almost threw up. There was a roaring in his ears, but even so he recognized the voice that had answered his question.

“Marcel!”

Through his distorted vision he saw Marcel, gloating, and still wearing that blood red baseball hat. You despicable little shit!

“Where the hell’ve you been, Marcel?” Rankin reached out, grabbed the boy by his T-shirt, and held him.

“I heard the commotion and came to look. I’ve been right here. Watching.”

“Christ Almighty, you’re close to having a good thrashing!”

“You touch me and I’ll phone Childline. Or the police.”

“God, I wish you’d do just that. I really wish you would. Because they’d take you away and keep you till your folks get back.”

“Then my dad would knock seven sorts of shit out of you and you wouldn’t be able to fuck my mum anymore!” Marcel smirked.

Rankin took a deep breath. “We’re going home, all of us. This very minute.”

“I haven’t had anything to eat yet. I want some chips.”

“You disgusting little bastard!” Rankin kept a firm hold on the boy and began leading him back towards the reptile house. “I don’t think any of us can face food after that!”

“I can. I’m hungry.”

“There’s been a nasty accident,” Rankin told Carol and Glenn where they waited for him outside the reptile zoo. “They’ve cordoned off that area back there, and they’ll probably close the zoo for the rest of the day. The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with … him?” Carol whispered as they approached the parked Subaru.

“Fortunately, no. But the bugger was watching, and wants to describe all the gory details. He’s revelling in it.”

“Let’s go home.” Carol looked at her watch. It was just after half past one. There was an awful lot of the day left yet.

Too much when you were responsible for looking after Marcel Hart.

Seven

“Well, what do you propose to do with Marcel for the rest of the day, Rank?” Carol came into the study and closed the door behind her. She was clearly upset and angry, close to tears. “Because he’s your guest and your responsibility. Frankly, I’ve had as much as I can take.”

“All right, all right!” Rankin snapped, holding up a hand. “I’ll think of something. Leave him to me.”

“It’s funny that they have an accident at the zoo on the same day that we take Marcel there.” Carol watched him carefully for a reaction. She was trembling visibly.

“Whatever do you mean? It was the elephant that crushed that keeper.”

“Just like I cut my own wrist. You say Marcel went to look at the elephant house.”

“After the accident.”

“Who says so?”

“He does.”

“And he’s the biggest liar I know. Oh, God, Rankin, that boy’s not normal. He’s not just crazy, he’s … evil!”

“We’re all shook up, letting our imaginations run away with us.” He crossed to the window and began drawing the curtains. Dusk was falling, the mist was creeping back up from the river meadows below. Later on, there would be another thick fog.

“You haven’t answered my question, Rank. How are you going to occupy Marcel for the rest of the day?”

“I’ll go and get a video from the shop in town.”

“And I hate to guess at what Marcel’s choice of videos might be! He’s a foul boy. I’m really worried about him sleeping in the same room as Glenn.”

“Glen’ll be okay, he can look after himself. He …”

“Dad!”

“That’s Glenn now!”

Rankin raced his wife out into the hallway and saw Glenn standing at the foot of the stairs, an expression of terror on his ashen features. “Dad, Marcel’s gone!”

“Gone! How d’you mean. He was upstairs, I thought you were both in your room?”

“We were. I went to the bathroom but when I got back the window was wide open and he’d gone. He must’ve climbed down the drainpipe.”

“I’ll get him,” Rankin strode for the front door, “and when I catch up with him, he won’t be going anywhere for the rest of his stay here!”

Rankin went out into the misty dusk leaving behind his wife and son clinging to each other. This time Marcel had gone too far.

Carol couldn’t take any more, that boy was up to malicious mischief always. She started for the stairs. All she wanted to do was to shut herself away in the bedroom and stay there until next Saturday. Or Sunday, if the Harts did not collect their son until then.

“Mother …”

“Yes, Glenn?” She halted. It was unfair to blame Glenn for any of this, he was caught up in it like herself and Cathy. Ultimately, the blame lay with her husband.

Cathy had come out of her room and stood at the top of the stairs, looking puzzled. Remus was in the kitchen doorway, ears cocked, a quizzical expression on his greying features. Everybody was asking what was going on.

“You’d both better talk to your father,” Carol said as she began to mount the stairs. “All this has got nothing whatever to do with me. I’m sorry but I can’t do anything about it.”

“Mother …”

“You heard what I said, Glenn. If you like, I’ll phone Daniel’s parents later and see if by any chance you can go and stay with them for the rest of half-term.”

“They’ve gone to their holiday cottage at Aberdovey.”

“That settles that, then.”

“Mother …”

“What is it now?”

“There’s something you ought to see.” The boy’s eyes looked from Carol on up to his sister. Remus growled softly.

“What? Where?” Carol experienced a sudden sense of panic. I don’t want to hear or see anything more that’s in any way connected with Marcel Hart!

“Up in the bedroom … in Marcel’s suitcase.” Glenn was going on ahead. He was starting to panic too. “I have to show you. Dad can see it when he gets back.”

“I don’t think I want to see it, Glenn,” Carol said wearily, but she followed him all the same. Cathy fell into step with her on the landing. There was safety in numbers, at least you had to believe there was, if you were going to keep your sanity.

“See!” They crowded the doorway of the boys’ bedroom and following Glenn’s trembling, pointing finger, saw an open suitcase on Marcel’s bed. There were a jumble of rumpled and unwashed clothes that gave off a stale odour, some cigarettes that had spilled out of a pack, a litter of sweet wrappers … and something that shone with a waxy whiteness, stared at them out of empty eye sockets, leered and mocked them with its open mouth.

A human skull.

Carol almost screamed. She clutched at Glenn and Cathy in case she fainted, the three of them huddling, cowering from that awful object that squatted on top of the suitcase contents.

“Oh, how awful!” Cathy was the first to speak. She had seen and handled human bones during the course of her biology studies; skulls were nothing to be frightened of … in a laboratory. But here, in a boy’s bedroom, they assumed a sinister implication.

“Where on earth did he steal that from?” Carol didn’t expect an answer to her question, she just had to say something.

“Maybe from the school lab.” Cathy advanced cautiously into the room and stretched out a hand.

“Cathy, don’t!”

“It’s real. I thought maybe it was plastic.” Cathy snatched her fingers away. “A lot of universities use them for research.”

Downstairs, Remus had begun the same howling of the previous night again. And, Carol thought, according to superstition, when a dog howled somebody was going to die. Somebody already had. The fellow who wore that skull. Also the zoo keeper.

“I’m not having that thing in the house!” Anger overcame her fear. “Cathy, go downstairs, please, and bring me those fire tongs off the lounge mantleshelf as well as a garbage bag.” Cathy returned a couple of minutes later, opening up a trash bag. In one movement she picked up the skull, dropped it into the bag, twisted the plastic and held it closed. “There, will that do?”

“Thank you, Cathy. Now, go and put it in the dustbin, please. I think Glenn and I will tip that suitcase out and see if there are any more disgusting objects hidden in it.”

They sifted through the mound of clothes and rubbish on the bed and held their breath as a stale odour lifted up. Innumerable sweet and chocolate wrappers. A catapult, a packet of unopened condoms. “I’ll hang on to those until he leaves,” she separated them from the rest. She then picked up a piece of folded paper and felt a slight twinge of guilt as she opened it out. “What on earth …?”

It was a drawing of some kind, a diagram. Five circles, obviously drawn with a compass, inside one another, a triangle inside them. There were also two burning candles, inked to a blackness, and a burning brazier at the apex of the triangle with two circles beneath them. A couple of crosses. Some writing that was almost illegible; Carol deciphered one sentence with difficulty “way to treasure.”

“What is it?” Glenn was peering at the paper as well.

“Some kind of childish game that he plays, I suppose.” She felt her skin prickle. “But I have to say, for a remedial pupil he’s drawn it meticulously, in great detail. If, of course, he drew it!”

“Why shouldn’t he have drawn it, Mother?”

“No reason.” She tossed it back into the suitcase. “Now, when your father returns with Marcel, he can tidy this lot up. I’m confiscating the catapult and these.” She blushed with embarrassment for condoms were “unmentionables” as far as her own children were concerned. “The rest he can tidy up and put away.”

She noticed Marcel’s dirty footprints on the window ledge and closed the window with a bang that rattled the pane. Her wrist throbbed reminding her that it was time for another painkiller.

“Where do you think Marcel’s gone, Mother?” Glenn asked the very question that was troubling her.

“I would prefer not to think about that!” She snapped irritably. Because, wherever Marcel had gone, somebody was surely in deadly danger. Carol wished now that Rankin had not gone out into the mist-enshrouded dusk to search for him.

Downstairs, Remus began howling again.

Rankin was tempted to take the Subaru. He hesitated in the drive then changed his mind. For a start, it restricted his mobility. It was unlikely that Marcel would stick to roads and pavements. Wherever he was headed it could be across fields, maybe down by the river. The boy could not have much of a start on him, it was all a question of following in the right direction.

He had a sudden idea. If Marcel had a definite destination in mind then it was likely somewhere down by his home, Sandpits Avenue. On foot, as the crow flies, it was maybe a quarter of an hour’s walk. It was a gamble Rankin decided to take. If he was wrong, then Marcel would have the freedom of the town tonight and the devil would foot the bill.

Rankin set off at a brisk walk. The mist was thickening earlier than it had yesterday. Street lamps were an opaque glow and he moved from one to the next, following the road downhill. There were a few pedestrians about, silhouettes with upturned collars, walking home from work or maybe a Saturday afternoon spent watching local football. But none of the hurrying shapes resembled the one he pursued.

And then he spied Marcel up ahead of him!

For a moment he thought that he must be wrong, it was too much to hope for. But there was no mistaking that almost obese figure, the way it moved with unbelievable, ungainly alacrity. A whiff of tobacco smoke, that coarse hand-rolling brand, was proof enough for Rankin that it was no wishful thinking, no hallucination.

He dropped back a little since he had no wish to be seen at this stage. It was curiosity that had the journalist adopting the role of stealthy pursuer, wondering where the boy was headed. Some gaming machine in a town pub where the landlord turned a blind eye to an under-age gambler? Another theft, perhaps a burglary? There was only one way to find out.

Marcel clearly had no idea that he was being pursued. Not once did he pause or glance back. Rankin took care to keep two lamp posts between them. The boy was clearly heading for home territory, maybe to meet some of his dubious friends. Possibly they had something planned for tonight, some outrageous act of vandalism.

Suddenly Marcel took a left turn and disappeared down a narrow alley between some terraced houses. Rankin increased his pace and followed. Here there was no street lighting, just a tunnel of murky blackness. A faint glow showed at the far end and Rankin emerged into a street that ran parallel to the one he had just left.

For a moment he thought he had lost the boy, then he detected a movement on the very extremity of his fogbound range of vision, a fleeting shape that was swallowed up by the fog. For some reason the fugitive had increased his pace, perhaps his suspicions were aroused. Whatever the case, Rankin could not afford to lose him now. Casting caution aside, he sprinted ahead, hoping that the sound of his footsteps would be muffled by the fog.

As they headed out of town now, the street lighting began to peter out. A light showed up ahead, a small beam that wavered like a marshland will-o’-the-wisp. Marcel was using a small torch.

Now there was no pavement, just a dew-soaked grass verge, a straggling hedge then a crumbling stone wall. Rankin had only the erratic glow of that torch beam up ahead to guide him. Marcel had only to extinguish it and he would be enveloped in darkness.

The light stopped, shone upwards. Rankin pulled up, then dropped to a crouch to make himself inconspicuous should the beam be directed his way. It wasn’t. It flickered, moving erratically. Only then did Rankin realize what was happening. Marcel was struggling to scale the old wall, finding a handhold and somehow heaving his bulky body upwards. Suddenly there was darkness, a soft thud on the other side, and the boy was lost from view.

There was no time to be lost. Rankin felt for a hold on the stones; there were several, yet some were precarious, and he was in danger of toppling the age-old edifice, and burying himself beneath an avalanche. Frantically his fingers sought a firm grip, finally finding one. His other hand gripped the top and then he was astride the dilapidated boundary wall.

A feeling of vertigo had him holding on grimly, uncertain of the drop down on the other side. Then he saw the torchlight again no more than fifty yards away. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his body down into the blackness beyond, maintaining a hold until his feet touched soft grass. The ground inside this boundary wall was higher than the road, perhaps banked up to support it.

He peered into the gloom as he tried to work out what Marcel was doing. The torch was stationary now, propped up on something so that its beam shone unwaveringly downwards. The boy was on his hands and knees, and Rankin could hear the clinking of stones. Christ, it was as if Marcel was digging, hacking, at the ground with some kind of steel object.

Rankin crept forward, testing the ground with each step before putting his full weight on it. The grass was knee high in places, his trousers were already wet. The scraping and digging served to camouflage any sound he made.

Now he was close enough for the torchlight to show him the silhouettes of upright and oblong stones as well as a cross that was as tall as himself.

Jesus Almighty, they were in a graveyard!

His mouth went dry. He found himself glancing around worriedly but there was only darkness and shadows and a rapidly thickening mist in this dank place. Of course, he knew where he was now, that unused churchyard just out of town. There were rumours that it was going to be sold for a building plot, but first it had to be established that all the relatives of the interred had been dead at least half a century.

What the hell was Marcel Hart up to here?

Rankin was within ten yards of the boy now. The torch was wedged in a moss-covered ornate headstone so that its beam shone on the ground. Marcel had scraped out a hole, but it looked like he had been digging here on a previous occasion because there was no way he could have excavated that two foot high pile of stones and gravesoil in the few minutes he had been here tonight. He was breathing heavily as he gouged feverishly with what appeared to be a garden trowel, examining each scoop carefully before tossing it on to the growing pile.

A sudden exclamation escaped his lips. He pulled something from the soil, wiped it clean on his jeans, then examined it in the torchlight.

It was a human bone, possibly a finger.

Rankin tasted bile and felt the perspiration chilling on his body. The little bastard was grave robbing, digging up skeletal remains to add to some revolting secret collection.

Enough was enough! Rankin stepped forward, grasped the arm that delved deep into the hole, and heard the trowel clatter down into the ancient grave.

“Fuck you!” Marcel looked up but there was not a vestige of fear in his expression, just hatred and fury because he had been detected. “Let go of me, you bastard!”

“Hold still or I’ll break your bloody arm!” Rankin hauled the other upright. A sneakered foot kicked at his shins, almost making him lose his grip. “Stop that or I really will hurt you!”

“So it’s you, I might have guessed!” Marcel spat a blob of phlegm onto Rankin’s jacket. “You creep! My dad’ll sort you out for this, just you see!”

“More likely he’ll thrash you so you’ll have to sleep on your stomach for a week!” Rankin got the other in a half-nelson. The boy was strong in spite of his flabbiness.

“Wanna bet, motherfucker?”

Rankin was trembling. With his other hand he grabbed for the torch, and as he did so its beam glinted on some aerosol lettering that had been sprayed across the adjacent tombstone.

SATAN LIVES.

“You do that, Marcel?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I had.”

“No, doubtless you wouldn’t. What the hell are you doing here, digging up skeletons?”

The other’s eyes rolled, and he smiled smugly. “Ark-e-logy. My school project.”

What a little liar! But there was nothing to be gained by an interrogation, certainly not here in this disused graveyard on a foggy autumn night. Rankin shuddered. It was Marcel who disturbed him most—he didn’t believe in ghosts.

“Right, we’re going straight home. Over that wall and into the road. I’ve got the torch so don’t try to run off. Get it?”

“Please yourself.” Marcel smiled again.

It was his arrogance that disturbed Rankin the most. And he obviously didn’t give a damn whether or not his parents found out that he had been thieving from those graves. It was almost as if they already knew and condoned his actions.

It wasn’t until Marcel slouched into the house ahead of him that Rankin saw that the boy still carried the human bone which he had stolen from the graveyard. His stubby, grimy fingers caressed it almost lovingly, and he cleaned it off with his ragged, dirty fingernails until it gleamed starkly in the artificial light.

Eight

“Well?” Carol appeared from the kitchen, slamming the door behind her just in time to stop the growling Remus from following her. She stopped and stared. “My God, where on earth have you two been? You’re plastered in mud. Take your shoes off and leave them on the mat.”

“Marcel’s got a new hobby,” Rankin attempted to defuse the situation because he knew his wife was close to the breaking point. “Gardening by torchlight. I think tomorrow he can do some leaf sweeping and weeding here, just to keep him out of further mischief.”

“Some chance!” Marcel muttered sulkily. “I don’t like gardening.”

“What’s that in your hand?” Carol had spotted the piece of glistening bone. Instinctively she reached out for it then recognized it for what it was and snatched her hand back. “Ugh, another of those!”

“What do you mean, another?” The boy’s expression changed again to anger and defiance.

“Human remains.” She glanced up at her husband. “There was a skull in his suitcase plus a number of other dreadful things.”

“If you’ve …’ Marcel’s fists clenched, the excavated digit was raised like a miniature cudgel. “Don’t you dare touch my belongings!”

“Too late, I’ve already disposed of it,” she said, her cheeks suffused with blood. “The catapult you can have back at the weekend, with your parents’ permission.”

“That’s stealing!”

“I don’t care what you call it, but I’m not having those filthy things in my house. Now, go and get your clothes off and get in the bath.”

“I don’t like baths.”

Rankin’s hand came round, and he took the bone away then gripped the boy’s wrist. Marcel began to struggle.

“You can stop that!” He pulled the boy round and thrust his face close to Marcel’s. “Now, see here, boy, I’m getting sick of all this nonsense. You’ve barely been here twenty-four hours and you’ve caused us endless trouble. Well, it stops right here because from now on you can bloody well behave yourself. You are not going to dig up graves. Neither are you going to take off just when you feel like it. In this house you will do as we do. Get it?”

“Let go, you’re hurting my arm.”

“Do … you … understand?”

“I’ll call the police. You’re assaulting me. My mates say that before long the police are going to take a lot of children in this town away from their parents because they’re being abused.”

Rankin felt his stomach knot. These bloody delinquent kids were conspiring to get their folks into trouble. That could certainly be the root of the recent witch-hunt. “All right, you call the police if you want. Go ahead, the phone’s right there. Carol and I will be only too delighted to see you taken away, since we can then spend the rest of the week recuperating. But don’t forget, I’m going to tell them all about your grave robbing. They won’t take kindly to that, and it’ll be another count of theft as far as you’re concerned. The choice is yours. The phone’s there, the bath’s at the top of the stairs.”

Both adults watched the boy tensely. His expression gave nothing away, his features were impassive. But when he moved, it was towards the stairs, a slovenly, sulky walk, dragging his feet. He peeled off his wet T-shirt and threw it to the floor, his baseball hat went spinning down the hallway. They watched him all the way up to the landing and heard the bathroom door bang. Only when the sound of running taps reached them did they relax.

“Well, let’s hope he’s seen reason.” Rankin held up the object which he had taken from their guest. “First, I’m going to deposit this in the dustbin.”

“I’ll send Glenn down to the chippie.” Carol looked both mentally and physically drained. “I just don’t have the energy to prepare food. What a filthy disgusting boy, in every respect. I’m afraid he’s destined for prison the moment he becomes an adult.”

A few hours later Rankin had showered and changed his clothes. Glenn was due back from the fish and chip shop in another quarter of an hour. Cathy was up in her room, listening to the latest tape which had come with her Great Musicians magazine.

“Well, we still have to get through the rest of the week.” Carol put two mugs of coffee on the table. “Might I ask if you’ve got any bright ideas for tomorrow?”

“I thought maybe we’d all go to the Sunday Market.” Rankin sipped his drink. “No wild animals, no graveyard.”

“Just shoplifting. But I guess it’s as good as anywhere else. By the way, I switched the telly on while you were in the shower. That zoo accident was on the news. The elephant was docile but they reckon the young keeper shouldn’t have gone in alone. Apparently he was trying to get a thorn out of its foot. I guess that’s what made it turn nasty.”

“Maybe.” Rankin was thoughtful. “This graveyard business has shocked me, Carol. They say there’s no smoke without fire. There was satanic graffiti sprayed on one of the tombstones. I reckon all this is a set-up, kids trying to get their parents into trouble. They’ve seen all about the other witch-hunts on the telly, so they’ve hit on the idea to start one off here. Boys like Marcel.”

“You could be right.” She rested her chin on her good hand. “And he might try to involve us, just to get his own back. God, I wish I knew where Tom and Judy were. There was something else on the telly …” she hesitated.

“Go on?”

“It may be nothing but the police are worried about rumours of a black mass somewhere down south. Friday’s Halloween.”

“Jesus, you surely don’t think they’re into that!”

“No, not really,” she smiled weakly. “It’s just that they’ve been going out a lot on their own lately, something they never used to do. Not just that, but they’re so damned secretive about it.”

One’s imagination can run riot at times like these.” He averted his eyes from hers. “That sounds like Cathy coming downstairs.”

The kitchen door burst open to reveal Cathy with her face flushed.

“Whatever’s the matter, Cathy?” Carol leaped to her feet.

“Dad, that boy!”

“Oh, Christ, what’s he doing now?”

“He’s in the bath …” Her blush deepened a shade further. “Singing. Well, shouting tunelessly at the top of his voice. It’s … it’s awful!”

“Well, I suppose that’s a small inconvenience compared with everything else that’s happened.” Rankin relaxed visibly.

“It isn’t just that.” Cathy stepped back and looked down at the floor. “It’s what he’s shouting …”

“Like what?”

“You … you’d better go and listen for yourself.” Then she turned and ran through to the lounge, closing the door behind her.

“Pornographic schoolboy ditties, I expect.” Rankin made for the stairs. For his daughter’s sake, he’d better go and shut Marcel up.

He heard the boy’s voice as he reached the landing. When he made sense of the muffled shouts that came from behind the locked bathroom door, he froze in his tracks.

“Rankin fucks my mum, my dad fucks Carol. Every Saturday night. Naked on the bed, shagging like rabbits. You should hear ’em come! Then my mum sucks his cock off. They fuck and suck all night …”

“Marcel!” Rankin banged on the door. Christ, he’d break the bloody door down if that fat creep didn’t shut his mouth!

Everything went silent except for a faint splashing of bathwater.

“You want me?”

“No, just be quiet. And hurry up and come downstairs. Glenn’ll be back soon with the fish and chips.”

“Won’t be long. Just got to finish. Guess what I’m doing, Rankin?”

Rankin didn’t answer, neither did he wish to hazard a guess at what Marcel might be doing. His face was hot, and he knew he was blushing just like Cathy had done.

In the hallway he paused, looked at the lounge door. It was still closed. He changed his mind about going in and apologizing for Marcel, as he remembered a Shakespearian saying, something about “doth protest too much.”

The sun was shining brightly by the time Rankin pulled the Subaru into the car park adjoining the Sunday Market. Multi-coloured lines of canvas stall awnings covered several acres, and the seething crowds added to the carnival atmosphere. Pop and country music vied with each other and in the adjacent field, there was a car boot sale in progress.

“A bonanza of bargains fifty-two weeks of the year,” the market proprietors claimed. Rankin recalled the market in its infancy when he had written a major feature on it. There had been an outcry locally, although few people lived within sight or sound of it. Rather they were upset that age-old rural traditions were being violated—on the Sabbath you went to church, shops remained closed.

But for those who did come, the cafe adjacent to the big supermarket offered cut-price Sunday lunches, and there was a playground for the children with an occasional Punch and Judy show. It was a huge multi-store out in the wilds.

Cathy could not be persuaded to come along, she wanted to practice her ballet in an empty house. Glenn had agreed to accompany them, as he was always pestering to come here and he wasn’t one to spurn an unexpected invitation. Even Marcel looked relatively normal today, and had not mentioned yesterday’s happenings. The night had been uneventful, everybody had slept soundly. Carol smiled at Rankin as they locked the car. This was almost relaxing.

“Hang on a sec,” she motioned to Marcel, as she turned to Rankin. “We’d better have some kind of plan. We don’t want to lose him again. I want to look at the waterproof jackets, Glenn wants a new football. We’d better make some arrangements for meeting up. I suggest we go in for lunch at twelve before the big rush starts.”

“Fair enough.” Rankin addressed Marcel. “We’ll all meet up by the cafe entrance at twelve o’ clock. You’ve got a watch. Don’t keep us hanging around or make us have to go and search for you.”

“All right,” Marcel was surprisingly cooperative. He turned on his heel, then walked away.

“Well, we can’t do more than that except handcuff him to us.” Carol grimaced at the prospect. She watched Glenn disappear in the opposite direction. “Just a thought, has Marcel got any money?”

“Tom and Judy would surely have given him some.” Rankin pursed his lips. If Marcel had neither money or cigarettes, he would steal them. “Anyway, don’t let’s worry about anything until we have to. I’m going to the music stall, I need some new cassettes for the car.”

Carol nodded unenthusiastically, she wasn’t a country and western fan. “I’ll go and see if there’s a raincoat I fancy.”

Rankin idled in front of the cassette stall. He took his time, checking the song titles on each case. The Sunday Market wasn’t his ideal choice for an outing. Usually, like Cathy, he opted out in favour of work. But today he had a responsibility towards his family, Tom and Judy, too. Sod that boy, mouthing about their relationship; Cathy had hardly spoken to either himself or Carol since. Marcel couldn’t know anything, could he? It was simply guesswork, his dirty little mind working overtime. All the same, it was disconcerting. Just as it was worrying about the Harts’ whereabouts and what they were doing.

Rankin bought three tapes, pocketed them, moved on down the aisle. Another fiver went for a bargain trio of boxer shorts.

Time passed relatively quickly. At 11:45, Rankin decided to make his way up towards the restaurant area. On his way he passed a hot potato seller, a small, thickset man with an oven on wheels. Five or six people were on line.

Ten minutes later Rankin stood in the cafe entrance, scanning the crowd. Three quarters of the tables were already taken, and a line of customers with trays lined the self-service counter. The aroma from within was appetizing—a mixture of roasts and chips, the air in the cafe tinged with freshly brewed coffee. There was no sign of either Carol or Glenn. He hoped that they didn’t have to go looking for Marcel although it was a strong possibility.

A familiar figure, slouching and overweight, caught his eye. Good God, this really was one for the book. Not only had Marcel arrived at the right place but he was early!

He was eating a baked potato out of a polystyrene container, greedily spooning it into his mouth with a plastic utensil, while butter trickled down his chin. Stupid boy, fancy going and buying food when they were just about to have lunch. Still, the less the other ate in the cafe, the cheaper it would be.

“Hallo, Marcel, any sign of the others?”

A grunt through a full mouth left Rankin none the wiser. Just then he spied Glenn. His son had bought an orange and black football and was bouncing it as he walked. Carol was just behind him, wearing a new imitation Barbour. Lunch, and then home. Rankin held the door for them.

And that was when the screaming started.

It erupted from somewhere beyond the second aisle, screams of terror that grew in volume and magnitude, spread in deafening waves, shattering the stillness of an Indian summer day. Heads turned, a sea of faces frozen with horror, knowing only that something terrible had happened, fearful of discovering what it was.

A column of smoke rose above the awnings, and began to move down the aisle toward them.

Now the watchers in the foreground joined in the screaming. They stood transfixed, their clustered bodies screening Rankin’s view from whatever burned and gushed the vile-smelling smoke.

Carol was shrieking hysterically, holding Glenn to her, trying to shield his eyes from the fiery thing that staggered forward trying to beat out the flames on its blazing body.

It was human, a man. Amidst the inferno Rankin vaguely recognized him. Of course, it was the baked potato merchant!

A fiery Nemesis straight from hell, it lumbered this way and that, driving the crowd back. The flesh melted until the features were charred and skeletal. The burning clothing shredded, allowing blackened particles of material to float away in the gentle breeze, revealing an obscene nudity beneath.

Somehow it still remained upright. Once it stumbled, but miraculously regained its balance. An arm lunged, scattering the horrified watchers. Turning, a beast at bay, arms hanging limply, the victim of fire finally conceded defeat and sank slowly to the ground.

Now the blazing heap was totally unrecognizable. The smouldering, smoking mass filling the air with the pungent stench of cremation. Some of those closest recovered their composure and stepped forward for a closer look, no longer afraid because whatever it was had died. For some, morbid curiosity was an addiction.

Rankin, feeling as if he might throw up, leaned against the wall. Carol joined him, Glenn sobbing inside her new coat. Rankin looked for Marcel and saw him standing a few yards away, his gaze transfixed on those smoking remnants that only a few minutes ago had been a human being.

Marcel’s eyes glowed with an expression that transcended mere ghoulish interest. They gleamed with an awful ecstasy as if he was willing the fire to burn again. And to keep on burning. The smile grew until the lips widened to receive another mouthful of baked potato.

And that was when sheer terror struck at Rankin Gorlay, when he almost screamed with those around him. It was then that he ceased to believe in coincidences.

Nine

Sunday

The Gorlays experienced an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu; a rerun of a film which they had seen only recently and hadn’t had the time to forget even the trivial scenes. Sunday became Saturday all over again. Crowds. Sudden death.

And Marcel.

In no way could they complain about his behaviour. By his standards it had been exemplary. He hadn’t wandered off or made a nuisance of himself in any way as far as they knew. He was even polite in his own way.

They hurried to leave the market, to beat the anticipated mass exit of visitors. But the car park was already closed pending the arrival of the ambulance. The police were on the scene within minutes ordering the traffic to hold back; they dared not risk a jam on the narrow roads.

It was two o’clock before the Subaru finally left the lot.

“Aren’t we going to eat?” Glenn asked.

Rankin and Carol glanced at each other. Right now the last thing they wanted was food. They were both still nauseated from their recent experience.

“I’ve eaten,” Marcel announced. “I had a baked potato and cheese from …”

“I’m sure it was very tasty,” Rankin interrupted him, anticipating a detailed, gloating account of the tragedy. “There’s a small cafe about a mile down the road.” A cup of strong tea with plenty of sugar would be welcome.

The cafe was closed, the windows were boarded up and a hand-painted board propped up against the door declared that it was “closed because of the poll tax.”

“There’s some pizzas in the freezer at home.” It was the best Carol could think of right now.

“I love pizza,” Marcel smacked his lips noisily. “Pizza and chips.”

One had to assume an attitude of normality, Rankin decided upon their return home. That potato vendor’s death in no way impinged upon their own lives—you had to be selfish in order to keep your sanity. Callous, in fact. The fellow could just as easily have dropped dead from a heart attack after they had left the market and they would have been none the wiser. It wasn’t death, it was the manner of dying that shook you. Like yesterday. He tried to push it from his mind.

“Well, did everybody buy everything they wanted?” The effort at small talk came over forced but nobody seemed to notice. Glenn bounced his football on the kitchen floor. Carol still wore her new coat as she switched the kettle on. Rankin put his trio of cassettes and the bag containing his boxer shorts on the table. Upstairs Cathy was listening to a Mozart tape.

“I bought a video,” Marcel spoke excitedly, dragging it from the pocket of his jacket. An unopened pack of twenty king-size came with it and bounced on the floor. A couple of bars of chocolate got caught up in the lining. He shoved them back hastily, almost guiltily, and grabbed up the cigarettes.

“You’ll be able to watch it this evening then, won’t you?” Carol seized upon an opportunity to ensure that their guest would be occupied for a couple of hours.

“Can’t I watch it now?” His voice was filled with childish impatience, almost petulance.

“Not at the moment. I’m going to warm some pizzas up. What video is it?” She wished she hadn’t asked since she didn’t really want to know.

“It’s called …” he consulted the casing, struggling with each word, “it’s … Human … Sacrifice.”

He held up the box and Carol saw a bizarre picture of a blood-washed naked girl, crucified head hanging downward on an inverted cross. Figures lurked in the background, amongst them a symbolic emblem of a creature that was half-human, half-animal.

“Good God, Marcel.” If she hadn’t fancied food before, she certainly didn’t now. “If your parents knew that you watched things like that …”

“They wouldn’t mind,” he smiled smugly. “You should see some of the ones they watch. They let me watch with them, videos they send away for from an occult shop up north. One of their favourites is about …”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it, Marcel.” Her stomach in knots, she glanced at Rankin and knew what he was thinking about—that black mass that was scheduled somewhere down south for Halloween’s eve, the one the police were trying to stop. “I’ll go and get the pizzas out of the freezer. Now, Marcel, take your coat off and go and wash your hands.”

Surprisingly, he did not object. He shuffled up the stairs clutching his video.

“I’ll have to pop out tonight.” Carol put a pizza into the microwave. “The party I did last Wednesday, the one at Jenny Embleton’s, I haven’t taken the hostess envelope back to her yet. You know, the list of guests and what they ordered, together with the money from those who paid in advance. I would’ve dropped it off before except for …” She nodded towards the upstairs.

“I might come with you,” Rankin said, “and have a chat with Jim.”

“D’you think it’s wise leaving Marcel here?”

“He’ll be all right. He’s got his nasty video to watch, hasn’t he? He’ll soak himself in that filth and forget about everything else. If we’re not away longer than an hour and a half then there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. Damn it, Carol, we can’t be a slave to the boy!”

“If you think so,” she sounded doubtful. “But we’d better make sure that he’s actually settled down to watch it before we leave.”

“Hi, there!” Cathy came in. “Had a good outing?”

“Uh-huh.” Rankin had no desire to relate the happenings at the market. “Pizza, Cath?”

“Great, I’m starving. I was too busy to bother eating at midday.” She moved across to the portable television on the unit by the fridge. “Better catch up on the news.”

When they were all seated at the table, Carol served up the pizzas and put a bowl of oven chips in the centre. “Help yourselves to chips, those that want them.”

The news came on; there had been a motorway accident in the fog that morning, a coach had overturned. Four dead, eleven seriously injured.

“Look!” Marcel pointed with his fork, his food forgotten. Heads turned, they saw the ambulances as well as the dead and injured being taken from the wreckage. “ Just look at that lot!”

“I think perhaps we’ll switch it off whilst we eat.” Carol turned, half rose from her chair, but the news item had changed. A scene that was only too familiar with its gaudy awnings and milling crowds.

“A tragedy occurred this afternoon at a remote rural Sunday market.” Behind the reporter you could see a pile of something that smouldered, horrified onlookers, policemen with fire extinguishers, and an ambulance standing by in readiness. The camera switched to a burned-out pseudo Victorian mobile oven with thick smoke pouring from it. “This was the cause of the accident, a baked potato oven, thousands of which are in use daily up and down the country. For some unknown reason the fire exploded and James Rowson, a regular potato vendor here, was engulfed in flames. Within seconds he became a living inferno.” Behind the reporter the ambulance was pulling slowly away, its blue light not flashing. “A doctor who happened to be visiting the market certified Mr Rowson dead at the scene.”

“Strewth!” Cathy was ashen. “You never said!”

“We didn’t think you’d want to know.” Carol switched off the television. She was trembling again.

Marcel was staring fixedly at the blank screen, seemingly unaware that there was no picture, a half-smile on his lips. It was some seconds before he realized that the set had been switched off. Then he picked up his fork and began to eat with renewed relish.

Marcel had settled himself on the Chesterfield in the lounge, his shoes outside in the hallway. Rankin had set the video then stood there with his finger on the start button.

“Carol and I will be back before long, so make yourself comfortable. Stay right there, and you’re not to smoke. Understand?”

The boy nodded. There was an expression of anticipation on his face as he stared at the screen. He was rigid with unhealthy expectation, Rankin thought.

“Don’t worry, I won’t smoke.” You almost believed him. Rankin thought about removing the cut glass ashtray from the coffee table but decided against it. “Right, then.” The button clicked, and there was a whirring sound from the video. “Enjoy yourself.”

“You bet I will.”

Carol was already in the car, with a buff envelope, the flap tucked inside but unsealed, in her hand. “Everything okay?”

“Seems so.” The engine fired first time. “We’d better not be too long, though.”

“It’s you who’s jittery now.”

“Christ, he spent some money this afternoon.” Rankin dipped his headlights, the fog was creeping back for the third night in succession. “That was a ten quid video. A couple of quid for a packet of fags. Chocolate, baked potato, and we don’t know what else he bought.”

“I expect Tom and Judy gave him enough to see him through the week. If he’s gone and blown it on the second day, that’s his problem.”

“They don’t give him money because he squanders it all on the gaming machines.”

“Meaning?”

“He probably shoplifts from the stallholders. It’s unfair to blame him without proof but you can’t help being suspicious.”

“Let’s not look for problems, Rank, they’re coming too fast as it is. Now slow down, the Embletons live in one of these houses on the left. They all look the same in this blasted fog. Wait a minute … this is the one.”

Jim and Jenny Embleton were a conventional couple in their early forties. Jim had worked in a bank since he left school and was now Enterprise Manager at the local branch. Jenny ran a nursery school for infants in the extension which they had added to their house a couple of years ago. Financially comfortable, Jim had already applied for early retirement hoping to achieve his ambition of a coastal residence within the next five years. Rankin found him rather boring company, but boredom was a welcome relief after the last forty-eight hours.

“Coffee?” Jenny wore one of the dresses that she had bought at a previous party run by Carol. You never saw Jenny Embleton in casual clothes.

“Thanks, we’d love a coffee but we mustn’t stay too long.” Carol was edgy. “The fog’s getting worse.”

“According to the farming forecast at lunchtime, it’s going to be like this all week.” Jim was meticulously filling his pipe, packing the bowl with coarse-cut tobacco. “You know, sunny days, fog at night. Better than rain and gales, eh?”

“I’ve brought the hostess forms,” Carol put the envelope on the table. “Money’s inside. Fifty-nine pounds, I’ll just check it for you.”

“I’m sure there’s no need.” Jenny came back into the room with a tray of coffee.

“I always like to check it, I’m not infallible,” Carol laughed, but her nervousness showed. She began counting out the notes, a twenty, two tens, a fiver, four pound coins. Her brow furrowed, she upended the envelope and shook it then looked inside. It was empty. “That’s odd …”

“What’s the matter?”

“I … I must’ve made a mistake. It’s a tenner short!” She glanced at her husband and saw him tense.

“Where’ve you kept it since last week?” His eyes narrowed.

“Where I always keep the hostess envelopes, behind the clock on the kitchen mantleshelf.”

“I’d better make up the deficit.” He pulled out his wallet and placed a crisp ten pound note on the table. “You can sort the error out later.”

“Thanks,” Carol’s mouth had gone suddenly dry. “I guess it’s in the paperwork, nothing to worry about.”

Carol’s conversation was stilted, and she kept glancing at her watch. The feeling of unease which had begun with the discovery of the missing money was growing. She told herself that her nerves were stretched, whose wouldn’t be after yesterday and today? They needn’t leave for another half hour yet.

Except that she wanted to be home this very minute. Because something was wrong.

“We really should be going.” She stood up and the room seemed to tilt then steadied.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” There was concern in Jenny’s voice.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll let you know the date when the clothes are being delivered. About ten days is the usual.”

Once they made the farewells and got into the car, Rankin sighed aloud.

“Well, we know now where the money came from for Marcel’s video!” He followed the kerbside, kept the headlights dipped. “The little bastard! Don’t worry, I’ll stand the loss. It’s my fault for agreeing to have him.”

“Rank, I want to get home as soon as possible!” She almost yelled her frustration at the fog which enforced their slowness.

“All right, I’m doing my best!” he angrily retorted. “I’m sorry, love, I guess all this is getting too much for us.”

“Rank, there’s something wrong at home, I know there is!”

“Everything’s fine,” he said despite the tension he felt as well. “We’re in plenty of time, Marcel’s film has another half hour to run.”

“Sod his vile film, that’s got nothing to do with it.”

She was leaning forward, willing the turning into Fishmore View to appear on their right, knowing that it was another quarter of a mile at least until they came to it. She clasped her hands together and her injured wrist began to throb. That was her own fault for not wearing her support.

Oh, hurry up. Please God that Glenn and Cathy are all right!

“Here’s the turn!” She almost shouted the words. Her fingers rested on the door catch as the road rose sharply and she counted the houses, looking for …

Fire?

The night was still and murky, the road deserted. No ambulance. No police.

Rankin let in the clutch too sharply, stalling the engine. Carol already had the door open and was running for the house.

The hall light was on. She stood there, listening. Cathy was playing her music in her room upstairs, the muffled sounds of the video came from behind the closed lounge door.

“Marcel!”

He was still on the settee, too engrossed in his film even to notice her presence.

“Marcel! Where’s Glenn?”

He looked up, his expression vague, his eyes glazed as though cataracts had filmed them, dulled them. Like dead eyes. She found herself recoiling from him.

“Eh?”

“I said … where’s Glenn?” She thought she shouted although it sounded more like a whisper, a very frightened one. Her glance rested on the screen momentarily. Oh, Jesus, it was some kind of ritual sacrifice. An animal was stretched out on an altar draped with dark cloths with black candles burning at either end. It was a dog of some indeterminable breed. How sick could you get?

“I dunno.” His attention returned to the screen, her presence was forgotten.

Carol pushed past Rankin who had come in behind her and ran for the stairs.

“Glenn?”

“What is it, Mother? You’re back early.”

Oh, thank God! “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He stared at her in amazement. “I was reading. Cathy’s listening to some tapes. Why?”

“Nothing.” She felt weak with relief because her children were okay. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. If anything, it was stronger now.

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Rankin said from the foot of the stairs. “I guess we’d both better get an early night. If you like, I’ll work at home tomorrow, not go into the office.”

She did not reply, just pushed past him again and headed for the kitchen. It was then that the sense of mounting foreboding hit her hardest, like an invisible barrier barring her way. She reached for the door handle, yet for some inexplicable, illogical reason she wanted to snatch her hand away.

Don’t go in there!

She had to force herself, call upon every last reserve. The catch seemed to stick, and she had to exert her waning strength causing her to almost fall into the room when the door yielded suddenly.

She stood there, surveying the interior. At a glance everything seemed as it should have been; the fridge was humming, the leather cased clock she had bought from the craft centre ticked loudly. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, since nobody except herself washed dishes here. Nobody had been in the kitchen while she and Rankin had been away. She would have known if they had, her female intuition would have told her.

Just as it was still trying to tell her that something was desperately wrong.

Remus lay stretched out in his corner where he always lay. Except that his posture didn’t seem quite right, he did not look comfortable.

Something flashed across her mind momentarily. She saw again that scene from the video that Marcel was watching in the lounge.

Oh, my God!

She knew even before she reached him that the ageing Labrador was dead.

Ten

“It was just old age.” Rankin was visibly shocked but he did his best to put on an act for Carol’s sake. Glenn and Cathy would be heartbroken at the loss of the family dog. Christ, it would have to come at a time like this! “I guess he just went to sleep and didn’t wake up.” His eyes were misty, it felt like something had lodged in his throat.

“He did something,” Carol inclined her head in the direction of the lounge. “Just like he caused that elephant to go berserk and the potato vendor to burn to death.”

“That’s nonsense. It’s impossible.” Rankin drew a trembling hand across his eyes.

“I want the vet to examine Remus, do a post mortem. I insist!”

“All right, all right. I’ll phone him first thing in the morning.”

“Rank, we all have to sleep in this house tonight.”

“Look, darling,” he said as he slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. “The vet won’t thank us for a late call about an old dog that’s way past his expected lifespan and has just died in his sleep. We have to be reasonable. I promise you, first thing tomorrow morning I’ll get a P.M. done. Okay?”

“I suppose so,” she shuddered. “But I’m just afraid of what that little monster will be up to next. I daren’t let him out of my sight and even then we’re not safe!”

Monday

Alan Lloyd had graduated from university last year and was now apprenticed to the local veterinary practice. He had earned himself a reputation during the lambing season and was respected by the local farming community. They didn’t take to “outsiders” easily in this part of the world, but they had taken to Lloyd. He would be “a good ’un in years to come.”

Rankin drove down to the surgery with Remus’s body shortly after nine. Lloyd smiled, nodding his sympathy. He understood how people felt when a faithful family pet passed away.

“Sure, I’ll do a P.M. if you really want me to.” He obviously didn’t think it was necessary.

“My wife wants it,” Rankin said feeling embarrassed.

“Okay, drop by this afternoon. I’ll have it done by about three provided nothing crops up.”

It all seemed rather foolish in the light of another sunny autumn day. Twenty quid down the drain, Rankin thought, but if it made Carol happy then it was worth it.

Rankin worked at home that day, and caught up on his filing while the rest of the family went about their business. He found himself unable to settle, it was just a case of passing the time. Tomorrow he would have to go into the office, no matter what.

He returned to the vet later in the afternoon.

“Heart failure was the cause of death,” Lloyd said as he wiped his hands on a blood stained rag. “But I’d say the old boy had a shock of some kind that brought about the heart attack.”

“A shock!” The journalist’s spine prickled.

“Not altogether uncommon in old dogs, particularly those that have gone blind. Often it’s a noise, something which they can’t see and are unable to identify by scent. Their old ticker can’t take a lot. One surge of panic is enough to see them off. There was a look of terror in your dog’s eyes that hadn’t faded with death, and his jaws were clamped hard together before rigor mortis set in. Who knows? But the old feller’s had a lot of good innings so I shouldn’t worry yourself too much.”

Rankin buried Remus at the bottom of the garden behind the weeping willow tree. Carol held Glenn’s hand, Cathy cried with them. Pet funerals were a kind of therapy where children were concerned. Burials helped to teach them the reality of death, how to grieve. He had gone through this once before when Glenn was five and Snowy, the cat, had been run over. At the time he swore that he wouldn’t have another animal but somehow he ended up replacing the departed.

Only Marcel was missing from the family congregation. It had not appeared to register with him that anything was amiss. He had just grinned in his usual silly way when Glenn had told him the news, almost as if he was contemptuous of them all for mourning their loss.

Afterwards Cathy went up to her room, Glenn to his. Carol went through the motions of preparing supper although nobody felt like eating much.

“Where’s Marcel?” Carol had almost forgotten about their visitor in the sadness of the past hour.

“Watching television, doubtless.” Rankin was washing his hands in the sink.

“I think you ought to tackle him about the money he stole from me, Rank,” she said with a bitterness in her voice.

“I intend to.”

“Well, the sooner, the better.” She sliced the quiche and left it in its foil dish. “He’s thinking right now that he’s got away with it.” Like he’s got away with what happened at the zoo and the Sunday market. And Remus.

“All right,” Rankin dried his hands. “I’ll go and get it over with.”

Marcel was lounging on the Chesterfield, but this time he had not removed his shoes. He did not look up at Rankin’s entry. In fact, so great was his concentration on the television screen, he seemed totally unaware that anybody else was in the room. He was immersed in a second viewing of Human Sacrifice!

“Marcel, switch that off at once!”

The boy did not indicate that he had even heard. He only pursed his lips in ghoulish appreciation of whatever was happening on the screen. Rankin glanced sideways and caught a glimpse of the film. Two cloaked figures were struggling to hold a dog on the altar, a third was slicing its belly open with a long-bladed, jewelled sacrificial knife. The animal struggled and whimpered, but they were too strong for it.

How bloody sick could you get? He attempted to convince himself that the victim was a dummy, but it was just too authentic. Two strides took him to the set, where he stabbed a finger angrily at the control button. The screen blanked out.

“Fuck off!,, Marcel swung into a sitting position with surprising agility. His expression changed from delight to anger. “I was watching that!”

“Well, you aren’t now. Furthermore, I don’t want you looking at that sort of rubbish in this house!”

“It isn’t rubbish. It was filmed at a real black mass. There’s a girl sacrificed, too, later on.”

“Nonsense, it’s a low budget video con. Now, I want to talk to you, Marcel.” Rankin moved back, standing between him and the door. Just in case.

“What about?” The boy’s eyes met his own unwaveringly, defiantly. There was no trace of fear in them.

“Where did you get the money to buy that filthy video, also the cigarettes and sweets?”

“Mum and Dad gave it to me.”

“No, they didn’t. They don’t give you money because all you do with it is waste it in gambling machines. Come on, I know where you got it. You stole it from the envelope on the kitchen mantelshelf, didn’t you.”

“Na.”

“Yes, you did. You might as well admit it.”

Marcel reclined back on the settee, closing his eyes. He had denied the accusation, and as far as he was concerned the conversation was closed.

Rankin’s fists clenched. Christ, he was close to hitting that boy—Marcel was pushing him too far. He took a deep breath, forcibly opened his fingers. Physical violence would not achieve anything.

Marcel did not open his eyes—in fact he appeared to be asleep. It was a type of defence which Rankin had never encountered before, a barrier of stubborn silence. Anything he said from now on would be ignored.

The journalist moved back to the video and flicked the “eject” button. With a whirring sound, the tape appeared in the extended tray. He withdrew it and experienced a feeling of revulsion. He held it between finger and thumb, then shoved it back in its case. Marcel’s eyes were open, watching him with an expression of unbelievable malevolence.

“I’ll give this to your father at the weekend.” Rankin’s voice trembled with anger.

“Good, he’ll want to watch it, Mum, too. Make sure you don’t forget, Rankin.” The use of his first name was deliberate insolence. Rankin wasn’t going to take the proffered bait.

“Food’s ready in the kitchen. Quiche.”

“I don’t like quiche.”

“All right, please yourself, there isn’t anything else. I don’t want you staying in here, so if you don’t want to join us at the table, you can go up to your room.”

“Your dog’s dead,” Marcel said. “I’m glad. I hated him.”

You nasty little bastard! “Like maybe you hated the zoo keeper and the baked potato man!” Oh, Christ, the words had slipped out, he hadn’t meant to say them.

“That’s right.” The smile was back, just a stretching of the lips, the eyes hostile, unblinking.

Rankin’s breathing went shallow, and he could hear his heartbeat speeding up. His skin was beginning to goose pimple. He wanted to swallow, but he couldn’t.

“I hate a lot of people.” Marcel’s voice was a rasping whisper. “Some more than others. That zoo keeper told me to fuck off, he made me mad. The potato man short-changed me by twenty pence, and when I told him, he told me to fuck off, too. Your dog’s been telling me to fuck off ever since I arrived here and I didn’t even want to come in the first place.”

God Almighty! Rankin thought the room was going to spin, and he clutched at the television to keep his balance. Marcel’s lips had stretched wide, mocking him silently.

“I hate you, too, Rankin. And your missus. You’re whores, both of you. You take my folks out for meals and things they wouldn’t be able to afford otherwise in return for fucking. That’s prostitution. My mum and dad are as bad as you and Carol, so I hate them, too. But I hate you worse because without you I wouldn’t be sent away every Saturday night so you can all fuck. You goin’ to admit it? If you do, I’ll admit to stealing the money, but I guess it don’t make any difference either way.”

Rankin’s lips tightened, only one thing stopped him from driving his fist into that smirking face. Fear. He didn’t understand and logic told him not to believe, but he had seen the evidence with his own eyes.

“I’d better go upstairs, then.” Marcel rose to his feet, shook himself like a dog. He smelled, and Rankin recoiled from the stench. “Looks like neither of us are going to confess, don’t it, Rankin?”

“Let’s just keep out of each other’s way and hope the week passes quickly.” Rankin stood back to let him pass.

“Sounds great, I just wish it was that easy. Just remember, though, I hate you and your family.” It seemed to Rankin at that moment that the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees.

*  *  *

Tuesday

“I shall have to go into the office today.” Rankin gently shook Carol awake, and placed a cup of tea on the bedside table. “I’ll try not to be home too late though.”

“Oh, sure,” she stirred, wincing as the memory of the past few days came back to her. “Perhaps I’ll do some shopping later, take the boys with me.”

“See you later.” He went downstairs. Nobody else in the household was stirring. The later they slept, the better. He experienced an urge to be away from here, a desire to flee. Because there was evil in the house. But he didn’t like leaving the family. Maybe he should have phoned in sick and stayed at home but he convinced himself he was over reacting.

The fog was even thicker this morning, a dense grey vapour that reduced visibility to less than thirty yards. It stank, too, like stagnant water.

The traffic crawled into town. Partly due to the fog, partly due to the roadworks. He found himself thinking about Marcel again.

Rankin didn’t believe in coincidences any longer. I hate you, Rankin, and your family. Like I hated your dog, and the zoo keeper, and the baked potato seller.

It took him twenty minutes to get through the traffic lights. There was something wrong with their synchronization.

The queue stretched right up the hill to the panda crossing at the top. The Subaru moved a few yards then held on the handbrake. Stop, start. Stop again. Cars were parked on both sides of the road, restricting the flow of traffic. Rankin recalled a recent campaign by the residents for double yellow lines; however the tradesmen had blocked it saying it was bad for business.

He needed a cigarette. Usually he never smoked before midmorning but he decided to succumb to his craving. It was as he fumbled in his pockets in search of his lighter that he got the feeling that the car was moving backwards. It couldn’t be, the handbrake was on.

His reflexes suddenly seemed to be reduced to slow motion. He checked to ensure that the handbrake was on.

It was.

The movement had to be an optical illusion caused by the oncoming flow of cars, like when you sat in a railway station and a train opposite began to move.

It wasn’t an optical illusion.

Christ! He tugged at the handbrake but it was fully on. He waited another couple of seconds trying to work out why the car was moving.

Stop it with the foot brake then! His foot and brain seemed to have difficulty in liaising.

By then the Subaru was gathering speed. Rankin stabbed at the pedal seconds before he felt the impact at the rear. A shuddering crunch, a tinkling of breaking glass.

Only then was Rankin released from the sluggishness that had dulled his mind and body. A glance in his rear-view mirror showed him that he had hit a Metro. The wing was dented, the hood had lifted and buckled. The driver, a blond-haired girl, was just sitting there with her head in her hands.

Oh, shitfire! Then relief surged over him because it could have been worse. Much worse. He might have gone all the way back down the hill, and fatally crashed at high speed. Or veered and hit those people standing gaping by the bus stop. Or …

Just a warning. I hate you, Rankin, and I hate your family, too.

Eleven

Carol awoke with a start and knew that it was late because the bedroom was flooded with bright morning sunshine. The digital clock on the bedside table said 9:55. The cup of tea alongside it was cold and untouched.

Damn, she must have drifted back to sleep after Rankin had left. She checked her panic, the urge to leap out of bed, throw on her clothes, and shout to Cathy and the boys to get up at once. Today it didn’t matter, nobody was going anywhere, just shopping, and that could wait.

She trembled with the shock of the sudden waking. At least, she thought that was why she was trembling. Rankin had been strangely withdrawn last night after he had had that confrontation in the lounge with Marcel, as if he was keeping something back from her. Just tiredness, she supposed. Like herself, the effort to talk was too great.

She had asked him what Marcel’s reaction had been upon being accused of the theft.

“He denied it, naturally,” her husband had shrugged. “You didn’t expect anything else, did you?”

And did Rankin really believe that Remus had died of old age?

“That’s what the vet said,” he replied with a sharpness in his tone, “and who the hell are we to argue with him? It was old age, his heart gave out. If you keep pets, you have to accept that they have a limited lifespan.”

Rankin never told her a deliberate lie, he just avoided issues and skirted the truth. Like the time she had first suspected that her husband was having an affair with Judy. It was intuition really, the feeling that there had been another woman in her bed. There was also the fact that Judy always seemed to clean the house on the days when he was working at home, and when she came to put in a few extra hours it coincided with one of Carol’s daytime clothes parties.

Even now she was not certain they had actually been having an affair. She did know that after the four of them had started going out on Saturday evenings, it had led to sex.

Carol had made up her mind that she wanted to end this sexual relationship. She had been thinking about it for some time, but it was Marcel who had helped her to come to a decision. That was about the only good thing that had come out of his stay. She didn’t want to be involved in all this.

But she wouldn’t tell Rankin yet, at least not until the end of the week. They had enough problems to cope with in the meantime.

Nobody was stirring yet. She crept downstairs, fearful of waking the other occupants of the household. Let them sleep all day if they wanted to. She made some fresh tea. Right now she didn’t have any plans past drinking some morning tea.

Somebody was coming downstairs. She tensed in expectation then relaxed when Cathy came into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a sweater.

“We overslept, Mother.” It was a veiled reprimand.

“You should have set your alarm if you wanted to get up early, dear.”

“I’m going to the dancing school to get some practice in for my Gold Medal. I probably won’t be back until this evening.”

“I’ll ask Dad to fetch you back around six. I shall need the car later, I’ve got a party at seven-thirty.”

“About time we had a second car, isn’t it?”

“We’ll have to get one soon. It’s only because your father seldom needs a car in the evenings that we haven’t got one already.”

“Can’t wait for Saturday!” Cathy raised her eyes towards the upstairs.

“You can say that again. I’m going to take the boys shopping later.”

“Best of luck. I think I can hear them moving now, I must fly if I’m going to catch that bus.” Cathy dashed through to the hall, grabbing her leather jacket off the coat stand. The front door banged behind her.

Glenn came into the kitchen and stood there rubbing his eyes. “Marcel isn’t up yet. He’s still asleep.”

“Let him sleep. Look, we’re walking into town later so we’ll have an early lunch, skip breakfast. Okay?”

“Suits me. Fish fingers and chips?”

“That’s probably all that’s left in the freezer. I’ll have to buy something for this evening.”

The door edged open an inch or so, making them both jump. Possibly Cathy’s hurried departure had caused a draught, and the catch hadn’t lodged properly. The hinges creaked.

Glenn glanced at his mother apprehensively. Both of them looked towards the corner where Remus used to lie. He had always been their failsafe, they had never worried about intruders when he was around; even in his latter years his hearing had been acute.

They were tense, although there was no reason to be. Was there?

“It’s probably just a draught,” Carol said. “I’ll have to oil those hinges, they’ve been squeaking for weeks. It’s no good asking your father to do it.”

They both knew there was somebody standing on the other side of the door. Likewise, they knew who it was, and that, in some ways, made it worse than if they hadn’t.

“Is that you, Marcel?” Carol’s question came out as a frightened whisper.

A rasping breath answered her from lungs that rattled and wheezed like some awful beast that had picked up their scent and was snuffling outside the door.

“Mum!” Glenn clutched at Carol’s hand.

“This is ridiculous. Whatever is the boy playing at now?” Carol’s heart was thumping, and there was a sudden roaring in her ears. She made for the door, dragging Glenn with her. “Look, I’ve had enough of …”

It was Marcel standing there and it was clear that there was something wrong with him. Dressed in his jeans and combat jacket, hair matted and unbrushed, his features were pallid as if he had not slept. He also appeared to be having difficulty with his breathing, struggling to take deep breaths as though he was gasping for air.

“Marcel, whatever’s the matter?” Carol was taken aback, frightened for a different reason now.

“I got …” he took another breath, let it out, “an asthma attack.”

Oh, God, Carol thought, this is all I need. Serves him bloody well right, though. Her wrist suddenly began to ache as if in agreement with her. No, that was selfish thinking.

“Just sit down a minute.” She steered him towards a chair. She remembered vaguely that Tom and Judy had once mentioned something about their son having asthma. She had forgotten about it until now. Damn it, they might have warned her.

“I’ll be okay.” He delved into his pocket, produced an inhaler with particles of fluff and dirt adhering to it, and put it in his mouth.

“I’d better ring the doctor.” If she was lucky enough to catch Dr Michalak, the elderly general practitioner in the practice, on duty then he would probably come right out.

Marcel shook his head and concentrated on his inhaling. He was shaking. Carol felt helpless just standing there watching him. If there was no improvement in his condition then she would certainly call the doctor. People of all ages died from asthma attacks.

“I’ll be all right in a minute or two.” He shoved the inhaler back in his pocket. “I often get an attack. Only when it’s a very bad one do I have to go on the machine. Once, when I was little, they had to take me to the hospital.”

“Smoking doesn’t help.” Carol was angry now. “Why don’t you give it up?”

“I’ve tried. It’s no good.”

“I’d better leave you here with Marcel while I go into town shopping.”

“No!” A sound of boyish protests, Glenn refused to stay with Marcel alone.

“In which case I’d better not go.”

“I told you I’d be okay.” Marcel eased off the chair and stood up. He looked shaken but his breathing was easier now. “It often goes as quickly as it comes.”

“I’m thinking of cooking up some fish fingers and chips.” There was one consolation in that if she got Marcel into town and his condition worsened then at least they would be close to the doctor or the hospital.

“I’m hungry,” Marcel smacked his lips greedily. She could have slapped his face.

Carol put some fish fingers under the grill, emptied a pack of frozen chips into the pan, then turned the cooker on. “They shouldn’t be long.”

“I have chips every day at school,” Marcel announced.

“Which is probably why you’ve got so many spots.”

“Na, they’re caused by all the sweets I eat.”

Maybe it was his diet that made him hyperactive. She had seen a program on television about it, there was even a society for people like the Harts who had problem children. Additives and preservatives in junk foods were the cause of hyperactivity. Cut those out and you were halfway towards winning the battle. The other half was won by eating the correct foodstuffs, and where Marcel was concerned, that was an impossible goal. Deprive him of convenience foods at home and he would go and buy them, steal the money if he didn’t have any. The same way as he always kept himself in cigarettes.

“The chips won’t be a moment now.” The pan was already starting to smoke. “Glenn, would you get three plates out, please, and some knives and forks.”

“I like mine out of paper,” Marcel grunted. “Eat ’em with me fingers.” He sucked his fingers noisily.

“Well, this is a civilized household, and you’re going to … damn it, there’s the phone. Glenn, watch the chips, please. Take them off if they start to smoke too much.”

Carol tensed as she reached out for the phone wondering if it was going to be bad news. It was probably Rita calling to cancel the party tonight. Cancellations were an occupational hazard in the party game; they cost you money.

“Hallo.”

It was Rankin calling, his tone sounded subdued! She could tell he was leading up to something. Oh, dear, he’d crunched the car!

“Not to worry, I’ve ordered a hired car for this afternoon. I’ll come home in it. You’ll be okay for your party.”

A mutual silence. They were both trying to find a way to blame Marcel for this. At the very least, the boy was a Jonah—he left a trail of unexplained disasters in his wake even if he wasn’t directly responsible for them. Rankin had phoned to break the news, and to check if everything was still all right at home. At the moment disasters were happening daily. There was no way either she or Rankin would be able to relax until that boy was back with his parents.

“Everything’s fine here,” she said. And at that very moment she heard Glenn scream.

“Oh, my God!” The phone clattered from her grasp and swung on its cord, bouncing against the wall. Her foot caught on the carpet, almost tripping her. Panic hit her even before she saw the black smoke billowing out of the kitchen doorway, villainous oily vapour that swirled and eddied, coating everything it touched.

The chip pan was ablaze, tongues of flame shooting upwards, scorching the ceiling. Amidst the smoke she saw the two silhouettes that mattered most, Glenn standing back in shocked horror and Marcel filling a bowl from the sink tap.

“No!”She caught the latter’s arm, dragged him back. He bent double with a spasm of coughing causing her grip to tighten and threatening to burst the stitches in her injured wrist. With her other hand she grabbed Glenn, hustling them both towards the door. Somehow she got it open and sent them staggering outside.

The oxygen from the open door fanned the flames. Now they licked at the ceiling and the smoke came thicker and faster. Carol kicked the door shut and ran for the hall. Rankin was still on the line.

“Chip pan,” she gasped. “Fire!”

“Put the phone back, get outside. I’ll call the fire brigade.” His orders were terse. She did as he commanded her.

Glenn and Marcel were standing in the driveway watching the smoke seeping out of the transom. Carol noted how they stood apart, divided even in travesty. Glenn’s features were ashen, his body rigid with fear. Marcel, however, had a relaxed posture, hands on hips, that chilling, gloating smile twitching his lips. He was gloating, an arsonist, a firebug, surveying his handiwork.

“How did it start.” She yelled at her son trying to shake him out of his daze.

“Just … started,” he coughed. “I was just about to take the pan off the ring when it burst into flames. Whoosh! Just like that.”

“Where was Marcel when it burst into flames?”

“Sitting at the table. He wasn’t anywhere near it.”

Carol stiffened. That made it a thousand times more terrifying. Inside the house the smoke alarm at the top of the stairs had begun its high-pitched bleeping.

The fire engine arrived within ten minutes, a scarlet monster that swung into the driveway, its siren shrieking, its blue light flashing. The helmeted crew in protective clothing unravelled a hose and went in through the kitchen door.

Within five minutes the seeping smoke had died down to a wisping trickle and they were pulling the hose back outside.

“Not to worry, Missus Gorlay.” The chief fireman came across to where Carol hugged Glenn to her. Marcel was conducting his own inspection of the fire engine. Fascinated, he was oblivious of all else. “Just a chip pan fire, we get two a week on average. You’ll need a new cooker, and the kitchen and hall will have to be redecorated. Apart from that, no damage.”

“Thank you so much.” Carol knew that she was going to cry. “I expect my husband will be here shortly.”

At that very moment Rankin arrived in a taxi.

“I’ll try and clean up a bit.” Rankin surveyed the smoke damage. It was as if somebody had painted the entire kitchen with a sooty brush and carried on into the hall until the black solution ran out on them. “Look, you’ve had enough for one day. Do like you planned. Take these boys into town, get them something to eat there, and then pick up the hired car from Border Rentals. You can use it for your party tonight.”

He made it sound like everything was normal, that today was just like any other day. It was a routine: you crunch your own car, hire another, and the chip pan goes up in flames but you don’t let it upset your plans.

“All right.” She glanced at Marcel. He was walking back down the drive alongside the reversing fire engine, although the driver was yelling to him to stand clear. The boy disobeyed. He simply stuck up his middle finger and blew a raspberry.

No, Carol decided, she wasn’t leaving Marcel at home. The further away he was from their house right now, the better.

Marcel either walked on way ahead or else lagged behind gazing in all the shop windows. He had been a nightmare in the supermarket, his offer to push the trolley had been an excuse to run with it to the danger of other shoppers. An angry supervisor had come to her and Carol had apologized, stressing that it wasn’t her son. But supermarkets, even in a country market town, were impersonal. They had no time to sympathize.

Had she not had Marcel with her, she would have taken Glenn to the old-fashioned tea shop and restaurant, but there was no way she dared risk Marcel’s behaviour in there. They were safer by far with the snack bar—hamburger and chips and a can of coke.

Afterwards she decided to take the boys into the castle—towering ruins amidst neatly mown lawns where there was nothing to steal, nothing to break. Carol had an hour to use up before the hired car would be ready to collect.

There was a sprinkling of visitors within the grounds, strolling across the grass and enjoying the warmth of the autumn sunshine. An elderly woman in a wheelchair being pushed by her husband frowned her disapproval at the way Marcel gathered up handfuls of dead leaves and threw them at Glenn.

“Marcel’s a pain, Mother.” Glenn broke away from his companion and returned to Carol.

“You can say that again!” Carol sighed. “Just leave him to his own devices. Let him use up steam. Maybe he’ll lose a bit of that weight, too!”

They wandered on. Steps hewn out of stone led up inside the ruins to the towering battlements. Carol did not relish a climb, so was glad that Glenn didn’t want to go aloft, either.

“Where’s Marcel?” Glenn’s sudden question snapped her out of her thoughts of how the kitchen might look upon their return home.

She looked around her shading her eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight. She saw the man pushing his wife in the wheelchair and some younger children romping. Apprehensively she scanned the silhouettes high up on the battlements but saw no sign of Marcel.

Then she saw him, and relief flooded over her. He was back by the entrance gates, squatting with his back against one of the big cannon plinths, staring up into space. Bored. And boredom wouldn’t do him any harm at all!

Carol found her attention drawn back to those people standing on the battlements. She envied them for up there they had an unrestricted panoramic view of the surrounding countryside at a time of the year when visibility was at its best. Until the mist came again the landscape would be akin to a detailed oil painting, every landmark stark and identifiable. They stood where centuries ago the English lookouts had stood, spying on the countryside for signs of an advancing Welsh army.

Suddenly she shivered. These gaunt remains were reminders of bloody violence and death. She stiffened and her nostrils flared at the unexpected odour of decay. There was a roaring in her ears like the tramping of a besieging army. Her mouth was dry. Looking for Glenn she saw him standing a few yards away, his gaze, too, riveted upwards.

Something was going to happen, and she was powerless to stop it. She wanted to run, to drag Glenn with her just as she had pulled him away from the kitchen fire. But she couldn’t.

Everybody was staring upwards, gasping, clutching at each other. Huddling.

Then Carol saw and understood. A figure had climbed from the vantage point along the ragged parapet. She could see it clearly, a woman in a polka-dot dress that lifted in the breeze, revealed a pair of blue knickers. Middle-aged, stout, having difficulty in keeping her balance, her arms were uplifted like a swimmer about to plunge from the high diving, board at the baths.

Oh, no!

Everybody saw and understood. Somebody was yelling to her to go back, not to jump. Even from below her features were distinguishable. She was crying. Her courage was failing her.

“Go back!” A man in a trilby hat close to where Carol and Glenn stood gave a hoarse whisper. A group of teenage girls on the far side of the courtyard were starting to scream hysterically.

The woman’s arms were outstretched, her ungainly figure poised.

She had made her decision.

Airborne, she fell quickly seeming to slow as her dress opened out in the manner of a parachute. Slow motion now; floating, somersaulting. A sky diver, legs kicking as though she tried to increase her pace, reaching for the ground below, waiting for the moment of impact.

The fall took maybe five seconds. It seemed like five hours, so graceful as if it was a stunt being performed for the benefit of the audience.

Only when she was twenty feet from the ground did the watchers know that it was for real. The aerobatics were over, the body was plummeting, gathering speed. The screaming stopped, everybody tensed. Waited.

There was a sickening, bone-crunching thud, and the figure mulched instantly into an unrecognizable heap. The dress billowed, spread, and folded over the mashed remains almost reverently as though it sought to hide the horror from those around.

Nobody moved and an awful silence ensued. Then people looked at one another, urging somebody else to go and see if whatever lay beneath the red and white polka-dot shroud still lived.

Carol was the first to regain the use of a shaking limb. She stretched out her aching arm for Glenn, grasping his wrist and pulling him away then walking unsteadily back towards the gates that led into the Square.

Towards the huge iron cannon, that symbol of English resistance, where Marcel still sat, hand-rolling a cigarette and smiling to himself.

Twelve

“Evelyn Frame had a history of psychiatric problems,” Rankin told Carol by way of consolation. “Three spells in Sheldon, four attempted suicides. This time she finally plucked up the courage to go through with it. So you can’t blame Marcel’s presence on the castle grounds in any way.”

“You said attempted suicides.” She put some chicken pies in the microwave. “That says it all.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“She climbed up on the battlements but she didn’t have the guts to jump. Something made her …”

“I think that’s stretching it a bit.” He was obviously ill-at-ease but it was probably due to the car accident and the fire. “We can’t go blaming him for everything. Anyway, that’s Tuesday over.”

“Almost.” Glenn and Marcel were in the lounge playing one of those dreadful TV computer games. But at least it was preferable to watching that sick human sacrificial video. “I shall be glad to get a new cooker and have the kitchen redecorated.”

“Cooker will be here Friday, the decorators have promised to start Monday,” he made a valiant attempt to sound optimistic. “And the car should be back on the road a week from today. All in all, I think that’s pretty good.”

Except that none of it should ever have happened. “Give those boys a shout. You’d better fetch Cathy as soon as we’ve eaten. That’ll just give me time to get to the party.” This was one occasion when Carol would have welcomed the hostess phoning in a cancellation.

Apart from his noisy eating, Marcel was strangely subdued throughout the meal. Once he broke wind loudly, seemed not to be aware that the others at the table exchanged disapproving glances. Glenn edged his chair away, scraping it noisily on the floor in protest. If Cathy had been here she would doubtless have said something. She had a vitriolic tongue where vulgarity was concerned.

“Right, I’ll go and get Cathy …” Rankin sensed that something was wrong and half rose from his seat.

“Marcel, are you all right?” There was concern in Carol’s voice.

The other sat slumped at the table, head resting on his folded arms, eyes closed as if he slept. There was no mistaking the erratic wheezing of his breathing, the laboured rattling in his lungs.

“Asthma,” his eyes flickered open.

“Oh, dear!” Carol moved over to him. “Where’s your inhaler?”

“Lost it.”

Christ! She fought against a surge of panic. “What do we do then?”

He closed his eyes. It was a second or two before he replied. “I’ll have to go on the machine.”

“I’ll phone Dr Michalak.” Rankin strode through to the hall, and dialled the surgery number.

“Yes?”

“Rankin Gorlay here, Doctor. We’ve got a boy staying with us who has asthma attacks. He’s having one right now.”

“Who is he?” The question seemed to have a ring of accusation about it. As if the GP guessed and disapproved.

“Marcel Hart from …”

“Bring him straight down to the surgery.” The line clicked, went dead.

“The doc wants him down there right away.” Rankin helped Marcel to his feet. “I’ll take him and then go on for Cathy afterwards. If I’m not back in time call a taxi for your party.”

Carol nodded. In a selfish way it was a relief to hand the boy over to somebody else, get him out of the house and opt out of the immediate responsibility. She consoled her conscience with the thought that she had earned it.

Marcel slumped in the passenger seat, Rankin had to fix the seat belt for him. The boy was gasping for breath while crying and complaining of the pain. The tires skidded on the gravel as the hired Escort shot forward and squealed out on to the tarmac. Rankin’s overriding fear as he jumped the courtesy traffic lights down by the bridge was that he might not make it in time.

Rankin arrived at the surgery and brought Marcel inside. “Wait there!” Doctor Michalak was obviously in a bad mood. He took Marcel’s hand and motioned to Rankin to sit in the waiting room. The GP was due to retire next year but was only doing so because he had no option on his seventieth birthday. After thirty years practicing in the town, he had become a living legend. You either liked him or you hated him; whichever, you respected him.

Rankin picked up a copy of Punch off the waiting room table, flicked the pages for something to do. Whatever the outcome of this asthma attack, it was beyond his control. He had done his best. Dr Michalak had removed the responsibility from him.

Time passed. Rankin gave up fidgeting with the magazine, tossed it back on the table. He found himself listening to the beating of his own heart. He was aware of movements somewhere in the building, somebody moving about. Far away a telephone rang twice, cut out. The call was probably transferred automatically to one of the other doctors.

Then there was the sound of approaching footsteps. The door flew open and banged back against the wall. Michalak stood there, looking even more dishevelled than before, his expression impassive. Marcel stood just behind him, for once a pathetic figure, seeming to cringe.

“He’ll be all right now.” The GP held the door wide in an undisguised hint that he wanted them both off the premises as soon as possible. “Straight to bed, no nonsense. If he has another attack, call me and I’ll organize an ambulance. It’s hospital next time.”

There was no mistaking the doctor’s disapproval of Marcel as he escorted them to the outside door. With not so much as a “good night,” he slammed the door behind them, locking it loudly as though he feared they might return.

Like Carol, Rankin further doubted the wisdom of their relationship with the Harts.

Marcel went straight up to bed without any protest. His breathing was much easier, almost normal, but the attack had left its mark on him. White and shaken, he would not be troubling anybody tonight, Carol decided with relief. Tomorrow was another day.

“Glenn will be up later,” she said as she escorted him to the bedroom. “If you want us in the meantime, shout downstairs. Now, I suggest you put the light out and get right off to sleep.” As she went back downstairs, she even thought that he might do just that.

Marcel, however, had no intention of going to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed for a while, listening. His hearing was acute, he had learned how to use it to maximum effect. The car came back, the front door opened and closed. That stuck-up bitch Cathy, had returned. She went into the kitchen, presumably to eat a microwaved pie. After that she would come upstairs to her room and listen to that stupid snobby music until bedtime. She wouldn’t be any trouble.

Carol would be out at her party until eleven or so. Glenn wouldn’t be coming up to bed until he was forced to, so there was no need to worry about that little runt. Rankin was the only problem—he’d probably look in to check that his visitor was all right.

Marcel heard Carol leave in a hurry, she was probably late. Cathy’s music started up as predicted. Glenn would be watching TV. And Rankin was not likely to come upstairs just yet.

He fumbled in his case, scrabbled amidst the jumble of clothes, and eventually found what he was looking for. A stick of white chalk, which he had stolen from the classroom on the day the school broke up for the half-term holiday.

It was thoughtful of the Gorlays not to have a fitted carpet in Glenn’s room. There was just a square in the centre, and he didn’t even have to lift the beds to roll it back. Marcel moved quickly and quietly, and exposed the floorboards.

Then he went to work, listening all the time in case somebody should come upstairs.

Thirteen

Wednesday

The Spearings lived in the council house one over from the Harts in Sandpits. Ken was forty-one. Once reasonably good-looking, he had suffered a facial disfiguration in an industrial accident in the West Midlands. Consequently, he received a disablement pension which he topped up with some “moonlight” farm work during the hay and corn harvests.

Tracey, his wife, did part-time bar work in one of the pubs. In between these occupations their combined hobby was bingo, which was why they were seldom at home.

Andrew, their nine-year-old son, had twice been in trouble with the police. Once for shoplifting, the other time for vandalizing a parked car in the Bull Ring. The boy had blamed Marcel Hart, told his parents that Marcel had dared him on both occasions. Marcel denied this vehemently and there was no way of proving otherwise.

“You stay away from that Hart boy,” Ken instructed his son as he and his wife made ready to leave for bingo. “He’ll get you in jail which is where he’s surely going hisself, you mark my words.”

“Marcel ain’t ’ere,” Andrew replied through a mouthful of cereal. “ ’E’s on ’is ’olidays, up with them posh friends o’ theirs on Fishmore.”

“And let’s bloody ’ope the bugger stays there for good.” Ken lit a cigarette and threw the spent match on the floor. “Now, you’re not to go out. You can watch the telly till we get back. If we’re not back by eleven, then get yourself to bed. Understand?”

But Andrew was too busy watching Coronation Street to reply.

The Pritchards lived immediately opposite. Gary and Veronica were on the verge of separating. They had slept in separate rooms since Christmas, ever since Veronica found out that her husband was screwing Jill Jewson on those afternoons when he came home from the morning shift at the factory.

Ella, their fifteen-year-old daughter, had long since given up on her parents. Dad was always out and Mom didn’t like her hanging around the house, even to watch the television. Every afternoon when she came home from school she was given fifty pence to get some chips and told not to show her face until bedtime. Which was any time after dark. During the holidays she was given a pound to cover two lots of chips. She could earn more than that from the lads on the estate.

She wondered what would happen when Dad left home. Her only concern was that her mother might put her into care. That would put innumerable restrictions upon her activities and curtail her pleasures.

The social workers had already been to see her mother and herself. That was because of complaints about Ella from some of the boys’ parents on the estate. Nothing had come of it. In the meantime, she would carry on as she had always done. She wondered if Marcel might be going up to the old churchyard tonight. Even if he was staying with friends he’d surely find a way to get there. It was worth a try, she hadn’t any other plans.

It was Wednesday morning. The dawn struggled to penetrate the thick fog which had drifted up from the river during the night, blanketing the town. Daylight would be slow in asserting itself.

The two unmarked police cars crept down into Sandpits and parked on the edge of the council estate. The four occupants got out, closing the doors quietly behind them. The last thing they wanted was to draw attention to their presence.

Chief Inspector Westmancoat adjusted his cap, nodded to the others. Sergeant Bourne would accompany Peter Carlyle, social work team leader, to the Spearing household. He would personally go with Bourne’s assistant, Edith Burroughs, to the Pritchards. After that they would visit the Harts.

Westmancoat was not happy about their mission for it was fraught with controversy. Rochdale and the Orkneys had backfired on the authorities, the odds were that this would, too. The claim was that the children in question had suffered a “vortex of evil.” Where was the proof? In all probability the “evidence” of a satanic ritual in the old churchyard had been rigged for that very purpose by those who had lodged the complaints. Anybody could spray aerosol graffiti on gravestones, dig up a few old skeletons. But the chief inspector didn’t have any alternative other than to go along with the social workers at this stage; warrants had been issued for the “removal to a place of safety” of three children. More would probably follow.

He took a deep breath and rapped authoritatively on the Pritchards’ door.

It took five minutes to rouse Veronica Pritchard. She stared uncomprehendingly at the police officer and his female companion. Her only concern was that she had been disturbed from her sleep.

“I’m afraid we have to take your daughter away, Mrs Pritchard.”

Westmancoat expected an outburst even abuse. If not that then at least hysterical pleading. He received neither. Veronica did not even bother to adjust her nightdress, she simply stood to one side for them to enter. “She’ll be up in her room. You’d best go get her, one of you.”

Edith Burroughs glanced at her companion. She preferred to be accompanied.

“Perhaps you’d lead the way, Mrs Pritchard,” he spoke tersely.

“As you like.” The other shuffled ahead of them up the stairs.

The house stank of stale cooking and sour body odours. Westmancoat wrinkled his nose. For health reasons alone the child would be better away from here.

“Me ’usband’s leavin’ me,” Veronica Pritchard spoke emotionlessly. “ ’e ’asn’t gone yet but ’e ain’t ’ere tonight, if you understand me.”

They didn’t, but it was of no consequence. They only wanted Ella, the parents would be questioned later.

“This is ’er room,” Veronica paused, hand on the doorknob. “It’s in one ’ell of a bloody mess but that’s ’er lookout. You can’t go cleanin’ up after a fifteen-year-old, can yer? I always says, they ’as to lie on their bed so it’s up to them ’ow they makes it.”

Ella Pritchard wasn’t lying on her bed. Neither was she in her room. It was an unmade rumple of grimed bedsheets which smelled as though she had wet them. It was impossible to tell when the bed had last been slept in. The room itself was strewn with dirty clothing.

“Have you no idea where your daughter is, Mrs Pritchard?” Chief Inspector Westmancoat had to check his rising anger forcibly. Every week, somewhere, a child was abducted, sexually assaulted, murdered. Parents went berserk, were never the same again. This woman didn’t give a damn. “No idea at all, I’m afraid.”

“You must have some idea, Mr Pritchard,” Edith Burroughs was visibly alarmed. The other landing doors were open, but there was no sign of the young girl.

“Looks like ’er didn’t come ’ome last night, don’t it?”

“But don’t you check to see that she’s home before you go to bed?” Westmancoat would personally see that this woman was charged, whatever the outcome. “I mean, your child is missing, it could be serious.”

“Not Ella,” the other laughed. “Most likely ’er’s in bed with one of the lads on the estate, gettin’ ’erself shagged. If ’er gets ’erself pregnant then ’er can bloody well look after the baby ’erself!”

“Underage sex is a serious offense, Mrs Pritchard,” Edith Burroughs spoke haughtily, and looked again at her companion. “You could find yourself charged for permitting it to take place with your full knowledge.”

Veronica Pritchard shrugged. “I got in the club when I was fourteen. My folks made me ’ave an abortion. I won’t do that to Ella, she can please ’er bloody self. But if she ’as it, as I said, she can look after it. It’s no good ’er bringin’ it ’ere!”

“We’ll have to report Ella as missing.” Westmancoat turned to go downstairs. “I’m putting a call out right now. If necessary, my men will knock on the door of every resident on this estate. And if we find her, I can assure you that she won’t be coming back here!”

“I thought that’s what you wanted, anyway.” Veronica made no move to follow them down the stairs. “Now, can I go back to me bloody bed?” The policeman’s only answer was to slam the door behind him.

*  *  *

Sergeant Bourne and Peter Carlyle had fared better. They were back at the cars by the time the others returned, a bewildered Andrew Spearing sitting in the back seat.

His parents had objected, naturally, to his removal from the family home, but neither of them had offered to accompany their son.

“I’ll be seeing my solicitor,” Ken had made a vague threat. “You’ll be hearing about this!”

“If he’s been up to anything,” Tracey’s priority was to exonerate herself from blame, “then it’s been behind our backs. And you can bet your life that the Hart boy has got him into it. It’s him you want to take away.”

Which, right now, proved to be an impossibility. There was nobody at the Hart house, the door was locked and the place was in darkness.

“Can I help you?” A middle-aged woman wearing a dressing gown and a scarf wrapped around her head slopped across the road in frayed carpet slippers. She had obviously been watching from her bedroom window. Mrs Etchinson always liked to be first with the news on the estate.

“We wanted to speak to Mr and Mrs Hart.” Westmancoat was on his guard. Doubtless all this would make the tabloids tomorrow.

“They’re away.” Screwing up her features, she peered at them in the misty dawn light. “You’re police!”

“We’ll call again,” the chief inspector began to turn away. “Oh, just one thing …”

“It’s the boy you’re looking for, isn’t it? Marcel. He’s always in trouble with the police. What’s ’e bin doin’ now?” She thrust her head forward. “ ’Is folks are away but I ’appen to know ’e’s stayin’ with those posh friends of theirs, the Gorlays, up on Fishmore.”

“Actually, I should be interested to know the whereabouts of Ella Pritchard,” the policeman changed the subject. “She didn’t come home last night and her mother has no idea where she is.”

“ ’Alf the time ’er never bloody comes ’ome.” Mrs Etchinson’s tone changed to a loud whisper, one eye closed in a knowing wink. “ ’Er’s on the game, you know. I seed ’er once, down the fields by the river, ’er and young Jamie Watson. ’E’s another one you want to check on. Naked as the day they were born, they was, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what ’er was doin’ to ’im!”

“If you see Ella Pritchard, perhaps you’d be good enough to ring the police station.” Westmancoat began to walk away. “Thank you for your help.”

“The sooner we get that girl into care, the better,” Carlyle said once they were out of earshot. “It would seem that all the rumours weren’t without foundation.”

“I’m not convinced about the satanic abuse aspect.” The policeman tried not think about the inevitable press conferences, the paper work which all this would involve. “I’m not saying there isn’t any such thing as satanic abuse, but I’ve never come across any evidence of it in my twenty-eight years in the force. What about those seventeen children taken into care in Manchester, a dozen of which are still in homes? There is no direct proof of any crimes being committed. And those three hundred kids interviewed by your lot in Humberside, the police are unable to come up with any evidence that any such practices ever took place.”

Carlyle was sceptical. “At the moment there are up to fifty thousand kids on child protection registers. It’s estimated that approaching six thousand have suffered sexual abuse, and a further seventeen thousand are at risk from sexual, physical, or emotional abuse, or neglect. Kids are removed from their homes because of alleged abuse but the police refuse to prosecute because of lack of evidence.”

Hence the rift between police and social workers. Westmancoat lapsed into silence. Carlyle was indoctrinated by rules and regulations, he worked to the book. Okay, if a kid wants to get his own back on his parents, he phones Childline or the police. They take him away. Or worse, a young child gets to see a nasty video and he fantasizes—satanic rituals and human sacrifice were often the favourites. There’s no actual proof but the authorities decide to hang on to the child for its own safety, err on the side of caution. The parents bring a high court action, get their kid back. That left the police in no-man’s-land. Which was precisely where they were heading right now.

“The Hart boy,” Carlyle broke the silence, “we’ll have to follow up on him. That woman said he’s with friends. She mentioned a name. Gorlay. Does that mean anything to you?”

“If it’s Rankin Gorlay, then he probably knows more about the issue of satanic abuse than you and me and the social services and the police put together. He wrote an excellent unbiased feature on it in the Advertiser last week. The Hart boy couldn’t be in better hands.”

“All the same, we’ll have to check on him.” Carlyle knew the rules, what was expected of him. “The boy’s probably only there on holiday. For the moment we have to get him away from his parents.”

“I’ll speak to Gorlay later,” Westmancoat was becoming impatient. “My priority is a missing girl. Okay, she’s probably having it off with some lad on the estate, but I have to ascertain that fact. We need to find her, then you can take her into care. Just a minute,” he reached inside the car for the radio, “there’s a call coming in for me.”

That was when Chief Inspector Westmancoat took the call from PC Wilmslow and learned that the missing Ella Pritchard had been found.

PC John Wilmslow was on the midnight to eight a.m. shift that week. With only five years’ service behind him he was arguably the best copper in the local force. He believed in PR and common sense; if you booked somebody for a minor misdemeanour you created unnecessary paperwork for yourself; that kept you office bound when you could be out and about doing something useful. Also you alienated somebody who was probably otherwise law-abiding. You might need their help some day, their cooperation. Let them off with a mild reprimand and they respected you, probably wouldn’t err again. So you had achieved your objective.

“Swanning” was the term used for patrolling at night, driving around looking for anything that seemed suspicious, noting the registration numbers of any odd vehicles. A police presence on a rowdy estate often prevented trouble and quieted the trouble makers. And if you were needed urgently anywhere, headquarters could always call you up on the radio.

Another reason for swanning was that the fleet of Maestros were due to be changed next year. The chief himself had pointed out that they hadn’t clocked up enough miles which could lead to a reduction in vehicle allocation. They were supplied with cars to be used, not to stand idle outside the station.

John Wilmslow was on his own in the station. Fortunately he had not been roped in for the proposed dawn raids next morning. Privately, he had no wish to be any part of it for there was sure to be a backlash and a public outcry. It could damage many of the good relationships he had built up in the town and its surrounding areas.

The fog was dense, thicker than he had thought. His instincts told him to stay at the desk, his conscience told him he would just be putting in the time until the shift finished. All the same, it wasn’t the night for travelling the narrow country roads.

His thoughts switched to the current rumours of satanic rituals. Somebody had definitely been mucking about in that disused churchyard, probably the kids who had started all this. You only needed to catch one of them spraying aerosol paint or digging up human remains and the whole business would fizzle out, making those social workers look foolish. They were the witch hunters, dragging the police into the firing line.

He drained his mug and came to a decision. He would drive on out to the churchyard, park then sit and listen. It was just the kind of night kids might choose to play another prank thinking they would get away with it under the cover of thick fog.

He eased the car on to the verge alongside the crumbling stone wall, killed the engine and switched off the lights. The sudden silence was eerie, frightening if you let your imagination run away with you.

He had a sudden thought. The day after tomorrow was Halloween. It might well be worth another visit here then. Whoever was playing these sick pranks would be sure to utilize the most haunted night of the year to maximum effect.

Wilmslow glanced at his watch—1:35 a.m. It was early. Or late, as the case might be; they might have already been here and done whatever they were going to do. On the other hand, they might not have arrived yet. In all probability, they wouldn’t come at all tonight. Damn. He’d give it an hour, anyway.

The clock rolled around to 2:30. He couldn’t stay here all night. He reached over to the passenger seat for his torch. Having taken the trouble to come out here, he’d look foolish in the morning if some fresh outrage had been perpetrated in the graveyard. Better take a looksee, he decided, a quick walk round to check and then back to the station for a hot tea.

Just as he started, to ease the door open, a call came through that there had been an accident up on the bypass, a head-on. Ambulances and the fire brigade were on the way. John Wilmslow tossed the torch back onto the seat and sped off. This would probably take up the rest of the shift.

Once he arrived on the scene, there wasn’t much he could do except put out warning cones and watch the sparse traffic. The fire crew worked to cut the victims out of both cars. Both were men in their early twenties and would undoubtedly be pronounced dead at the scene by Dr Michalak who had just arrived. Either one or the other was over the limit, John decided. You would have to be drunk to drive at that speed in a fog like this one. At least neither of the drivers had been carrying passengers.

PC Wilmslow kept his distance. Not that he was squeamish. He was hardened to road accident carnage, but there was no point in going to look if you didn’t have to. There was just one witness, a middle-aged man driving a Fiat Uno, the car that the Sierra had overtaken straight into the path of the oncoming Chevette. John took a statement from the fellow who was understandably very shaken. Luckily he carried a mobile phone and had been able to call for assistance right away, Otherwise more traffic might have ploughed into the wreckage.

It was six a.m. by the time the accident recovery vehicle had cleared the road. The policeman retrieved his cones, then headed back to the station for an overdue brew. Which still left him with an hour to kill before his shift was finished.

It was as he sat drinking his tea that his thoughts returned to his earlier unfinished mission. He had never got around to checking the churchyard. It would probably have been a waste of time, but he didn’t like to clock off and leave unfinished business.

Plus he had one of those gut feelings, a hunch that was too strong to be denied. If the Sandpits kids had been out there squirting aerosol paint then there wasn’t much he could do about it. Except that he had to know.

Which was why he went back outside to the parked Maestro.

Dawn was doing its damnedest to penetrate the opaqueness of the fog, although it would not be fully daylight for another half hour yet. John Wilmslow got out of the car and closed the door quietly. He checked his watch. Right now the boss was probably moving in on the council estate, about to haul certain people from their beds. The young constable preferred a dawn reconnaissance of a disused graveyard.

He went in over the wall, dropping down the other side. Tombstones jutted out of the tall weeds at varying angles, eerie silhouettes magnified by the creeping fog. This might easily have been some place of ancient worship. John shivered and moved forward cautiously.

The grasses rustled noisily and the dew saturated his trousers. Somewhere a crow cawed once, a rasping sound, as if to warn the long dead that a mortal trespassed in their domain.

He came to where a track had been trodden through the undergrowth and knew that somebody had been here recently, at least within the last forty-eight hours or else the springy grass would have eased back into place.

He followed the track, checking each headstone he passed for signs of vandalism, but they had not been defaced. He experienced a peculiar sense of disorientation, as if he had lost his bearings and might wander around and around forever.

Which was nonsense.

He came to another gravestone, and the graffiti stood out starkly in the grey half-light. SATAN LIVES. John had seen that one before, the first time he had investigated the complaint of satanic rituals in here. Sick bastards! He started forward then saw that more words had been added, this time in bright scarlet paint that had run until it dried. Like blood.

DIE FOR SATAN—AND LIVE!

Shit! He backed off involuntarily. It was as if the words had been specially painted in anticipation of his coming.

And it was at that very moment that he sensed he was not alone.

He felt a prickling of his skin where the cold tentacles of fog stroked it, the swirling vapour that created shapes and destroyed them before he could recognize them. A dank stench cloyed his nostrils. He fought against the urge to flee this place, scramble back over the wall to safety. He did not even know whether he could find the wall again.

He stood there, wanting to shout out loud, “I’m a police officer.” But the distant corvid called again, mocked him. This is the place of the Undead.

He found himself reading that lettering over and over again, trying to comprehend. It was kids that had done it, boys like Marcel Hart and Andrew Spearing. He would check in at the station, then go question them before his shift ended. He’d charge them.

Finally he forced his gaze away from the blasphemous lettering. And that was when he first noticed Ella Pritchard.

She was sitting with her back against the moss and lichen-coated headstone, stark naked, the roll of fat around her waist bulging as if she wore a grimy lifebelt. Her legs were lewdly spread in a coarse invitation, her arms dangled loosely by her sides.

She stared straight at him with dulled eyes, smiling at him with her gashed and bloody throat.

Fourteen

“And you’ve absolutely no idea where the Harts are?” Chief Inspector Westmancoat asked with an air of resignation.

“None whatsoever,” Rankin Gorlay replied and hoped that his own nervousness didn’t show. It hadn’t taken long for Wednesday to keep up the daily routine of horrors. He shifted uneasily in his chair, debating how much to tell the policeman. Outside in the garden, Marcel and Glenn were raking fallen leaves into a pile on the empty flower border. Surprisingly, the boys were working amicably; doubtless they planned to light a stinking bonfire and choke the residents of Fishmore View. Then the telephone would be ringing with complaints from all directions. But that was a small inconvenience when compared with the satanic ritual killing in the old churchyard.

“The social services have got a warrant to take Marcel Hart into care.” Westmancoat watched the boys through the window. “I’m trying to stall that in view of the fact that he’s staying with you. But once his parents return I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Doubtless you are fully aware of his background?”

“Absolutely.” Rankin lit a cigarette. “And I’d better tell you here and now that I caught him in the churchyard the other night.”

“Oh?” The other stiffened.

“I think that this business is a combination of kids playing in the graveyard for devilment and something more sinister, Inspector. Marcel was collecting human bones, a grisly hobby but I expect half the kids on the estate have been doing it. If you ask me, Ella Pritchard had gone there for the same reason, but then some maniac stalked her and killed her. It’s just too easy to try to pin her death on a satanic killing.”

“Perhaps,” Westmancoat’s eyes regarded the journalist unblinkingly. “But we have a very serious murder hunt in progress. I’ll have to question Marcel down at the station. You understand that?”

“Absolutely.” It wouldn’t be anything new to Marcel.

The telephone rang, and Rankin excused himself to pick it up. It was the Advertiser, they wanted him to do a rushed lead feature for Friday’s edition. They were reserving space on the front page and already had the heading typeset: HALLOWEEN KILLING. Friday looked like it was going to be one helluva day.

“They want me to write the story,” Rankin regarded the inspector apprehensively.

“In other words, you want a press conference ahead of everybody else,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “I’m giving one at two o’clock this afternoon, although I won’t be telling them anymore than I’ve told you. I can arrange for you to have a copy of the girl’s photograph. We want it in all the papers as we’re looking for anybody who might have seen her since yesterday lunchtime. Her mother last saw her at twelve-thirty, gave her money to buy food. She wasn’t even aware that the girl hadn’t come home to go to bed!”

“Sexually assaulted?”

“No. Whoever attacked her was above average strength. He broke her back when he slammed her up against the tombstone. The strength of a madman, literally.”

Rankin sighed inwardly with relief. At least that let Marcel out. “Marcel was in his room from yesterday evening until my wife woke him this morning. He had a very bad asthma attack, I had to take him down to the health centre. Doctor Michalak attended to him.”

“I know.” Westmancoat smiled, he had already spoken with the doctor. The other had remarked that he thought it odd that the Gorlays were friendly with the Harts. The inspector would only delve into that if the need arose, at the moment it seemed to have no bearing on the case. “I need to establish a motive. At the moment I am keeping an open mind. I haven’t altogether ruled out a satanic ritual killing, though. A human sacrifice.”

Rankin thought about the video he had confiscated from Marcel. It was in the drawer by his elbow right now. It had to stay out of sight for the boy’s sake.

“I’ll, take Marcel down to the station,” the policeman stood up, “and unless there’s any reason not to, I’ll have somebody bring him back. If you hear from his parents, I’d like to speak to them, too. Otherwise, I’m afraid that the moment they return from holiday, Marcel will be going straight into care. This killing will only serve to strengthen the authorities’ belief in satanic abuse in the town.”

Rankin watched them leave in the unmarked police car with Marcel sitting, seemingly unconcerned, in the passenger seat. He was undecided as to whether or not he hoped the boy would be returning.

“Well, Marcel can’t have had anything to do with this,” Carol’s expression sought confirmation of her statement. “I mean, we both know that he was in his room all night, don’t we?”

“We don’t have any reason to suppose that he wasn’t.” Rankin glanced towards Glenn. “He was, wasn’t he, Glenn?”

“He was asleep when I went to bed,” Glenn replied, “and he was doing stinking farts in his sleep. I had to open the window. And he was still letting them go when I woke up this morning.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m going to clean that room up while he’s away,” Carol said. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be back. You don’t get rid of the likes of Marcel that easily!”

“I’m just praying that Tom or Judy will phone.” Rankin moved back to his desk. “In the meantime I’ve got a load of work to do. And don’t any of you go wandering off alone. Nobody in town’s going to rest easy until this maniac’s been caught!”

Glenn went back outside, if he raked up enough leaves then his father would probably give him some money. It wasn’t a good idea to burn them like Marcel had wanted to because the smoke would enshroud Fishmore View just as these early morning fogs were doing lately. Far better to let them rot down and use them as a mulch on the borders.

He was tense for there was something about their visitor that went deeper than slovenliness and dishonesty. It was bad enough having to put up with somebody who stole, lied, didn’t wash, and farted most of the night so that you had to sleep with the window open. But Marcel was strange and menacing. He hated them, Glenn could tell; if he could do them harm, he would.

Glenn couldn’t get his dream from the night before out of his mind. He had tried to wake up but it had been impossible. The bedroom had smelled vile, a suffocating putrid odour as if some animal was bedded down in the corner, messed, and lay in its excreta.

Somebody moved about, shuffled to and fro, muttering strange incantations. There was a noise as if the carpet was being rolled up, then bare feet with ragged toenails scratched on the floorboards. Glenn had tossed restlessly. Once he thought that somebody leaned over him, and he tried to turn his head to escape their fetid breath. It had gone on for hours, most of the night in fact, but in the morning everything was as it should have been and the lingering smell was just Marcel.

“I’ve made up something for you to drink, dear.” His mother appeared on the patio clad in her denim overalls which meant that she was going to do some housework. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

“I didn’t sleep too good.” He dropped the rake, went up on to the patio and kicked off his boots. “Bit of a headache, nothing really.”

“Take a paracetemol with your drink.” She picked up some dusters, a can of aerosol polish. “I’m going up to do your room, which is a dreadful mess. It’s not your fault, I know.”

“It smells in there,” he said pulling a face.

“I’ll spray it with something sweet smelling.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. And don’t go out on your own, you know what happened last night.”

Carol went upstairs. She wasn’t in the mood for housework but she needed to do something to take her mind off everything else. This whole week had been a catalogue of terror with something terrible happening every single day. Four violent deaths and Remus had died, too. Her gashed wrist ached continually as if to remind her of it all. There was no way you could directly blame Marcel, it was just that he was … around.

Strewth, it really did stink in the boys’ room even with the window open. It made her feel quite sick. And what a bloody mess! Marcel’s bedclothes were in a heap in the middle of the bed, his dirty clothes were strewn all over the floor. She began picking them up, lifting them with forefinger and thumb, holding them at a distance as she dropped them into his open suitcase. No way was she going to fold those! She forced the lid down and knelt on it to enable her to fasten the catches.

She didn’t bother smoothing out his sheets, just threw them back up, covered them with the quilt. On Monday she would take the whole lot down to the launderette. Monday … it seemed light years away.

Damn it, she might as well clean the whole room, move the beds, take the carpet up, vacuum the floor. It was about time they had a new carpet in here, maybe next week she and Rankin could take a trip into Kidderminster …

Carol recoiled, staggered back to the door, and stared in disbelief at what lay beneath the carpet. Chalk markings, circles inside one another, a triangle, scribbled writing. Her initial anger was swamped by a cold, prickling fear. That boy had been chalking on the floor, but his markings, his accuracy and precision made a mockery of his remedial gradings.

Déjà vu was becoming frighteningly repetitive. Those markings were an exact replica of that folded diagram which she had discovered amongst Marcel’s belongings the other day.

She backed away. It was as though she had uncovered a nest of deadly snakes coiled beneath the carpet. Stark and threatening, the chalk lines seemed to shimmer in the golden sunlight, a living, inexplicable hostility.

“Rank?” She went to the top of the stairs, called out. Her voice trembled. She heard him come out of his study and mount the stairs with a tread that lacked his usual vitality.

“What is it?” He sounded annoyed at being disturbed.

“Look!” She stood back, pointed with a shaking hand, closed her eyes and prayed that he would come up with some innocuous explanation.

“Jesus alive!”

Carol’s stomach knotted, and she felt physically sick. Her vain hope that her husband might laugh, ridicule whatever that was on the floor, was dashed. Her fingers closed over his. “My God, what now!”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure. I’ve seen pictures of a cabalistic circle before, and I think that’s what this is.”

“A what?”

“A cabalistic circle. It’s attributed to the Jews, supposedly given by God to two of his angels, Azel and Uzza, who were thrown out of heaven along with Satan. Lucifer is supposed to have instructed Eve in the art of black magic with it. Solomon used it and became the most powerful of all magicians with its use. Nobody dared to draw it until Schimeon Ben Jochai recorded it at the time when the Temple of Solomon was destroyed. Through various means it found its way to Europe. According to a book I once read, by using it you can summon up a demon, compel somebody else to obey you and burn or destroy something belonging to an enemy. In a nutshell, you can perform unbelievable, devilish acts if you know how to make it work for you.”

“Do you … believe in it?” Please tell me you don’t, that it’s all some hocus pocus that Marcel has got from one of his videos.

“I keep an open mind on such things.” He held her to him. “Aleister Crowley, said to be the most dangerous and evil of all modern magicians, used it to raise up Pan in an apartment in Paris. He did just that. Afterwards, his companion was found dead and Crowley spent six months in an asylum. So I’ve read,” he added deliberately casting a doubt for Carol’s sake.

“That’s nonsense, a nasty fairy-tale or something for a far-fetched horror film.” Carol knew that she did not sound convincing.

“Maybe. I’m only telling you of my scant knowledge of the Cabala. My guess is that Marcel’s come across it in some occult book …’

“He doesn’t read.”

“Well, somewhere, then. Or one of his dubious friends has.”

“There’s a grubby sheet of paper in his suitcase with all that drawn on it.” Carol extricated herself from her husband and struggled to unfasten the case on the bed. “Here, I’ll show you. I bet you’re right, one of his friends has found it somewhere, copied it, given it to Marcel, and for a sick game he’s chalked it out on the floor.”

Rankin stood back and watched his wife rummaging through the soiled contents of the suitcase, searching pockets, casting unwashed clothes to one side. There had to be a simple explanation.

“It’s not here!” Her announcement was akin to a cry of despair. “But I found it, before.”

“He’s probably got it in his pocket right now.”

“Why?”

“Because boys carry things around with them.”

“What … what are we going to do about that?” She found herself backing away from the circle on the floor, not daring to take her eyes off it as though it was some fierce dog that might suddenly launch itself into an attack.

Rankin didn’t reply. Right now he did not have an answer.

“Well?” she demanded, panicking.

“I’m … not sure.” If there was anything in it, if it wasn’t just something that Marcel had found and copied, then it might be dangerous to interfere with it. Like vandalizing a temple of worship, black or white, you never knew what deities might take revenge upon you. It was fanciful thinking, but when it came right down to it, you didn’t dare to take the risk.

“I can scrub it off,” she whispered in case something overheard her.

“No. No, don’t do that. Not just yet, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Well … if anything does go wrong, I mean, if Marcel has been dabbling in satanic rituals, the police might want to see it. Not for one moment do I think he has or they will.”

“I can’t just leave it there!”

“Cover it up, roll the carpet back over it.”

“No, you do it, Rank.” Carol moved back still further until she was standing outside the room.

“All right, I’ll do it!” He spoke tersely in an attempt to camouflage the fear in his voice. He trod carefully, ensuring that he did not step on any of the chalk marks, and reached out for the rolled carpet. His gaze was riveted on the circle, it had an almost hypnotic effect upon him. Curious. He found himself trying to decipher Marcel’s writing inside a marker that pointed in the direction of the open window— way … to … treasure. “I reckon he’s playing at some kind of treasure-hunting game.” He laughed. It was forced.

“Rank, I think I’m going to have a word with the Reverend Paxton.”

“Christ, what on earth for?” He straightened up, the carpet was back in its original place. Even so he walked around the edge.

“Well, he might be, able to help us. I read something about him in the parish magazine a few month’s ago. He’s performed exorcisms.”

This time Rankin did not laugh. “Well, it’s a thought, but we mustn’t overreact at this stage. In all probability it’s some boyish prank, sick as it is. When Marcel returns, if he does, then I’m going to speak to him about it. And I’m going to make him scrub the floor clean!”

“All right.” It was a compromise, for the moment she would go along with it. “But, fact or fantasy, I’m not having Glenn sleep in here with Marcel. There’s still a bed in the other room even if it is surrounded by tins of paint and dust sheets. Glenn can sleep in there tonight.”

“Fair enough.” He joined her on the landing and pulled the door shut behind them. “But the moment that boy comes back I’m going to have a little word in his ear.”

Chief Inspector Westmancoat had interviewed hundreds of suspects in his career, many of them hardened criminals who had later been found guilty of serious crimes, but none had exasperated him to the extent which Marcel Hart did.

The boy was totally unmoved by his surroundings and his predicament, his expression was blank, showing no emotions, whatsoever.

“You admit that you knew Ella Pritchard?”

“Yes.”

“How well?”

“I screwed her once. So did dozens of other kids.”

“We’d better make a list of names, then.”

Marcel couldn’t remember the boys’ names. A verbal “yes or no” session followed; Westmancoat had a copy of the school register on file. It took an hour. Four other boys out of six hundred would have to be questioned. Remedial mathematics was not one of Marcel’s strongest subjects.

“You didn’t leave your bed last night until this morning?”

“Yes.”

A stiffening of the muscles but no change in the facial expression. “Where did you go?”

“I went for a piss.”

Christ, it was hard going! They already had the boy’s fingerprints on file for theft charges, it might have been simpler to give him a kit to keep at home. When he’d committed a crime, just fingerprint himself and bring it down to the station. It would be a big saving in police time.

“Have your folks ever shown an interest in satanic worship?”

“In what?”

“Devil worship.”

“Na.” “Na” was the most frequently used word in this lengthy statement.

“Do you know that taking bones from a cemetery is theft?”

“Na.”

“Well, it is, and you could find yourself charged with yet another count. What do you steal them for?”

“ ’Cause I like ’em.”

Four hours later and Chief Inspector Westmancoat had a monster of a headache. All he had gained were the names of four boys who, on Marcel’s say-so, had had sex with the deceased. They might be charged with underage sex but probably wouldn’t, not in the midst of a murder inquiry. Extra manpower was being drafted in to cope with house-to-house enquiries and telephone calls. So far five nutters had “confessed” to the killing; there would be more.

“We’ll probably want to talk to you again.” The policeman closed the folder and pocketed his pen. “As soon as PC Wilmslow comes back in, I’ll get him to run you back up to the Gorlays.”

It was six o’clock before the constable returned. He was exhausted, he had been on duty eighteen hours without a break. He put the kettle on to boil. That boy could wait awhile yet, it wouldn’t do him any harm.

Rankin saw the police Maestro slowing in the road. It pulled up at the bottom of the drive, but made no attempt to turn in. The passenger door opened, and Marcel got out, slouching his way up towards the house, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cammo trousers.

Rankin felt a surge of unease, but he fought off anger and fear. So the police weren’t holding Marcel. They had no reason to, as the social services were quite content to let him remain temporarily with another family. Damn it, the Gorlays had let everybody off the hook.

He left his study door open, waited for Marcel to come in through the front door. Carol had gone into town with Glenn and Cathy where they would eat out at the Indian restaurant. They had done so deliberately in order that he could have Marcel to himself.

The front door opened, then was kicked shut with a bang. Marcel stepped over the mat, making no attempt to wipe his feet.

“Marcel?” Rankin made it sound almost casual.

“What?” The boy did not check his dragging feet. He was headed for the stairs.

“I’d like a word with you, Marcel, please.”

“Why?”

“Come in here and I’ll tell you.” For one moment he thought the boy was going to ignore him, then he changed direction, and stood expectantly, defiantly, in the doorway. “Come in, close the door behind you.”

Again, the door was closed with a back-heel that vibrated some of Glenn’s football trophies on one of the bookshelves.

“What is it?”

“Sit down,” Rankin indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

There was a moment of uneasy silence for the journalist, Marcel was sullen, and stared at him in that same unblinking, unnerving fashion.

“How did you get on down at the police station, Marcel?”

There was no answer. The stare never wavered.

“You’ve been a long time.”

“Too fucking long!”

“Look, let’s not have any of that filthy language,” Rankin’s fists clenched beneath the desk. “I’m just asking you what the outcome of your visit was.”

“Waste of time. They’re a load of prats.”

“They’re searching for a very dangerous killer. All of us, including you, could be in danger.”

“I’m not scared. Anyway, Ella got what she was asking for.”

“There’s something I want to ask you, Marcel.” It was pointless pursuing a post mortem on the visit to the police station.

“Oh, yeah?”

“What is that you’ve drawn on the bedroom floor, and why did you draw it?” Rankin met him, stare for stare in an eyeball encounter.

“Somethin’.”

“What?”

“My business.”

“Well, let me tell you what it is. It’s a cabalistic circle and I’m just wondering if you are aware of its implications.”

He knew he had pierced the other’s defensive armour. The boy started, dropped his gaze for a second. Then Marcel grinned and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“You’ve guessed, eh? That’s bloody clever of you. I was hoping you wouldn’t find it, and if you did that you wouldn’t ask. But you have, so I suppose the time for pussyfooting around is over.”

The hairs on the back of Rankin’s neck began to prickle. There was more than arrogance in the other’s posture and expression now. He had to fight to stop himself from conceding to it. He almost even apologized. But he stopped himself. The chips were down and he’d take this repulsive bastard head on. “This is my house and I’ll say what goes on in it? You’re into black magic, aren’t you?”

“You can’t hurt me.” Marcel’s head was thrust forward, that smile had changed to a bestial snarl. Something sinister had replaced his boyhood. “Nobody can hurt me, not even those fucking cops. And another thing, you can’t get rid of me, Rankin, no matter what you do. Call the police, the social workers, get them to take me away, but I’ll be back tonight. I’m not just another kid mixed up in what his parents are doing. I’m much, much more than that!”

“Then what the hell are you?” Rankin had an urge to flee the house, to go into town, find Carol and the kids, go some place far from here. Instead, he gripped the sides of his chair, awaited an answer.

“I’m not going to tell you just like that, use your fucking brains!” Marcel gave a peal of mirthless laughter. “Answer me something I already know, Rankin. I just want to hear it from your own lips. You’re fucking my mum, my dad’s fucking your missus. Right?”

Rankin nodded slightly. This was no time for lies and cover-ups. He had thrown down the chips, he had to pick some of them up.

“At least you’re not denying it. All right, suppose either my mum or Carol gets pregnant, what’ve you got? A bit of either of you and half of something like me. If my folks had had any other kids they’d’ve been the same as me, couldn’t be otherwise under the circumstances. I’m whole, what they bred. A swap baby would be half and half. Get it?”

“You’re talking in riddles.”

“You’re fucking thick, that’s what the trouble is. Either you see or you don’t, I’m not going to spell it out for you. But me, I’m special. There ain’t another like me in the whole world. I’m surprised my mum and dad haven’t initiated you and Carol, that puzzles me. Perhaps they will after Halloween when they get back. Or maybe they’ve left that to me whilst they’re away!”

“What’s your game, Marcel?” Rankin wished he hadn’t asked, he didn’t want to know.

“Don’t really know unless my folks intended me to convert you, but they’d surely have told me if that was what they wanted. So I’ve got to look after you in the meantime. At times it’s difficult, but I’d be in trouble if anything happened to you until I know for sure.”

“You cut Carol’s wrist deliberately, didn’t you? And you killed our dog?”

“Sure. Nothing serious, though. Carol’s stitched up and mending, and you can always get another dog. I could’ve done a lot worse if I’d wanted.”

“You killed the zoo keeper and the potato vendor? And Evelyn Frame, didn’t you? And what about Ella Pritchard?”

“Go easy, man, this ain’t confession time.” Marcel pulled his tobacco tin out of his pocket, found his papers and began rolling a cigarette. He took his time. Rankin noted that, unlike himself, the other’s hands did not shake. Oh, God, save us from this spawn of the devil!

“Why us?” There was a note of almost pleading in Rankin’s voice. “What have you got against us?”

“Nothin’ personal, except maybe that you screw with my parents and that pushes me out, like it does with your own kids only they don’t notice because they’re privileged and have everything they want. Maybe it’s how the powers want it, they need you because you write for the papers and you can influence folks. I dunno. Or perhaps my mum and dad want you for all time, and the only way they can do that is by making you immortal like themselves. I won’t know for sure until they tell me. After Friday it’ll probably be different.”

“Why don’t you just go away and leave us in peace? Tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you, Carol and I will break off with your folks.”

“Na!”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“It’s not up to me.”

“We were going to scrub your cabalistic circle off the floor.” Rankin said it as an attempt at defiance.

“You can’t. If you’d tried, it would just have come back again, like an invisible ink that shows up just when you think it’s gone. Don’t waste your time. In any case, you might make somebody a lot more powerful than me very angry if you try to remove it.”

Rankin felt sick and drained, as he stared at

Marcel through a haze of tobacco smoke. The boy seemed to take on all different shapes; frightening ones. Just the features remained the same, smirking with some power that was beyond human comprehension.

“What do you want the cabalistic circle for?”

“My business. Like I said, don’t try interfering with it, I can’t guarantee your safety if you do.”

“Look,” Rankin was desperate, “I’m asking you not to harm my family.”

“I won’t. For now. After Friday it depends on my folks, they’ll do what they want. Can’t even guess at that. Maybe they’ll want us all to move in together.”

“No!”

“No, I don’t want that, either,” Marcel scowled. “I couldn’t stand living with snobs. No, I don’t expect it’ll be that. It’ll be something, though, that’s for sure! Well, I can’t sit here all night surmising, I got things to do.”

“Glenn will be sleeping in the other room.” Rankin meant to shout it, but it came out as a whisper.

“That’s good,” Marcel turned back in the doorway. “Tell you something, though, I enjoyed myself with him last night. He don’t know it but I can tell you this, he enjoyed it, too!”

Rankin slumped across the desk and buried his face in his arms. He wanted to cry but the tears would not come, he was even drained of rage and frustration.

Some time later he heard the Escort return, its tires crunching on the gravel. His instinct was to stumble to the door, yell to Carol to turn around, drive away and keep on driving. But it would not have solved anything.

Wherever they fled, they could not escape Marcel Hart who was surely Satan’s spawn.

Fifteen

Thursday

Rankin knew that there was no way he was going to sleep tonight. He lay there, trying not to fidget or toss restlessly, listening to Carol’s rhythmic breathing. Hopefully, both Cathy and Glenn were asleep. Like Carol they were not aware of the full danger, and he wasn’t going to tell them. Not yet, anyway because it would not make any difference to the outcome.

Earlier he had considered the possibility of them all sleeping in the same room; safety in numbers. But there was no safety, there was no escape from the evil which Marcel had brought into this house. Rankin’s only hope, a consolation which he clung to desperately, was that the boy would not harm them for the moment. At least, not until his parents returned.

It was a weird, unbelievable situation. He regretted having told Carol so much about that cabalistic circle; he could have passed it off as graffiti, maybe. Yet he couldn’t deny that it was the most powerful magic there was, black or white, depending upon the one who harnessed the forces it generated. Solomon’s wisdom, Crowley’s evil, opposite ends of the scale. There was no doubt in which direction Marcel’s power lay.

Yet the boy’s position was a total contradiction to his family background. Rankin did not know for sure whether or not Tom and Judy were involved in satanic ritual. They weren’t the types. If there was a type. It was all supposition. Marcel had expressed surprise that his parents had not “initiated” the Gorlays but you couldn’t believe anything he said, he was an outrageous liar. He could be trying to trap his own parents in his web of evil as well as the Gorlays. Embittered, Marcel sought revenge on those who had come between himself and his folks and was determined to punish his parents as well.

One thing was clear. The friendship between the Gorlays and the Harts had to cease, there was no question of that, amicably or otherwise. Somehow Rankin had to extricate himself and Carol from the tangle in which they now found themselves.

It was all so confusing. Marcel hated his parents so why was he intimating a satanic liaison with them? They gave him a hard time, he responded by bringing constant trouble to them, visits from the police, complaints from the neighbours. Unless, and Rankin went rigid at the thought, they had initiated their son into the ultimate evil and that was his way of revenge. Now the boy had the power he needed, he was going to make them all pay dearly. Marcel had become too powerful for his parents to control him.

Tomorrow was Thursday. No, today was Thursday. Rankin saw by the bedside clock that it was already two a.m. Two days to go and, hopefully, the Harts would return on Saturday. If there was no word from them on Saturday evening then Rankin would go down to Sandpits to see if they were back. They might well have planned to spend one last night without their troublesome son. Well, if they did happen to be home then they could have that damned boy back right away and there were a few things that had to be said. After that, pray God, life might revert to some kind of normality.

Rankin almost drifted off to sleep, then was abruptly awakened.

He knew that something had woken him. It was more than just vertigo in his dream. A noise. He listened and heard Carol’s steady breathing and the pounding of his own pulses. Maybe one of the others had gone across the landing to the toilet. He strained his ears to catch the flushing of the lavatory, creeping footsteps back to one of the bedrooms. Perhaps Glenn was having difficulty sleeping in that partially decorated spare room. He could sympathize with him for not sleeping at all!

The cistern didn’t flush, there was no stealthy crossing of the landing. Then Rankin thought he detected a voice, distant and muffled. Surely not. The other three were in separate rooms, they wouldn’t be conversing. It might be possible that one of them was talking in their sleep. Glenn used to sleep talk frequently when he was very young, incomprehensible low chatter because something was worrying him. They had never got to the bottom of it, it had just stopped when he started play school. Lack of infantile companionship, probably.

Now that he had detected the sound, Rankin became more aware of it. Even so, he was unable to identify the voice. Maybe one of them was listening to an all-night radio station. That was more like it. Both Cathy and Glenn had Walkmans and behind closed doors you wouldn’t even hear that irritating noise that the headphones made. The only radio upstairs was in the boys’ room. That figured, it was just the sort of thing that hyperactive boy would do.

Rankin might have been able to ignore it had it been Glenn or Cathy. Where Marcel was concerned, anything was an irritant, designed to annoy. You took the bait however hard you tried not to.

Rankin eased himself carefully off the bed and made sure that he had not disturbed Carol. It would take just a minute to go out and tell Marcel to bloody well turn that thing off and go to sleep. He’d feel better then, that would be something else that their visitor hadn’t got away with. This game of one-upmanship was getting to be just too much.

The landing was eerie, lit by a faint moonlight that filtered through the fog outside. Rankin reached for the light switch, but decided against it. It might wake the others. He shivered. It was damnably cold which, he supposed, wasn’t altogether surprising on a damp, foggy autumn night. Soon they would have to set the central heating to come on during the night hours. Winter was only a step away.

That noise was definitely coming from the bedroom where Marcel slept. Or rather, didn’t sleep. Rankin heard a low monotonous chant, the words barely audible unless you were listening for them. Gibberish, idiotic.

And all the more frightening because of that.

Rankin’s hand rested on the door handle, he felt it vibrating. He wanted to snatch his fingers away but he couldn’t.

He was scared. Because of what he knew was chalked on the floor in there.

The handle clicked. Rankin was sure that he had not depressed it, but the door was slowly easing open, taking him with it, gently but firmly pulling him inside the room.

Had he been in full control of his vocal powers, Rankin Gorlay might well have screamed. He tried to pull back but that handle held him like clinging steel fingers of unbelievable strength. He may well have fallen had it not held him. His mouth opened, but whatever sound he tried to make became stuck in his throat, threatened to choke him. He cowered, cringed from the scene which the misty moonlight revealed inside that bedroom.

“Oh, Merciful God, save us all from this spawn of Satan!”

Marcel sat cross-legged in the centre of his cabalistic markings. He was completely naked, his overweight stomach bulging with rolls of fat that quivered as he chanted in a low monotone. His features were barely recognizable; eyes that seemed to glow in their puffy sockets; nostrils dilated, sniffing the air; lips barely moving as he muttered sounds that seemed to rumble from deep within him. His hair was brushed back, exposing a wide forehead that glistened with sweat, and adding to the appearance of some dwarfed demigod, an evil and stunted being that was more animal than human.

The stench in the bedroom was overpowering, and came at Rankin with a nauseating, almost physical, force. An odour of putrescence and mustiness, intensified by the coldness that might have blown directly from the arctic wastes.

Marcel’s eyes fixed on him with burning malevolence, there was no surprise in his expression. I summoned you, there was no way that you could disobey my call. Rankin felt his own lips begin to tremble, mutely pleading with this creature of darkness not to harm him or his family. His hand came away from the door, his legs refused to bear the weight of his body. Sinking down slowly into a kneeling, subservient posture, his head was held erect by those hypnotic eyes so that his neck ached. It was impossible to shift his position, trapped in some awful paralytic pose, hating himself because he cringed and conceded his authority as master of the house.

The room darkened until all he could discern were silhouettes. Marcel seemed to have changed, his outline was now that of some animal, with a shaggy roughness, angular head, ears like stunted horns that protruded from the skull.

The cold was intense, the stench choking. Rankin recoiled mentally, physically he was unable to move. He tried to close his eyes, to shut out the image, his mind rejecting those obscenities before him. It was a primitive creature that gave way to base desires, panted and grunted, threshed on the floor and then stretched out a claw-like hand towards him.

Touched him.

The figure grew to unbelievable proportions and towered over him. A foot that was neither soft nor toed, but hoofed and hard, forced him downwards. His face chafed on the uncarpeted floor, he retched at the vileness of the taste in his mouth. His throat scorched with bile, a splinter wedged beneath a fingernail as he began to drag himself across the floor.

Rankin knew that he lay within the circle. He felt it encompassing him, imprisoning him like barbed wire that would rake his flesh if he attempted to escape. It held him, defiled him. Neither his mind nor his body were his own, he had given them to something to do as it would with them.

He transcended terror and revulsion otherwise he would surely have gone mad, becoming an imbecilic plaything for whatever dominated his very soul. An awareness such as one experienced in a vivid dream, struggled to wake him but was trapped tantalizingly in the subconscious. He had been seduced into depravity. His soul had been raped, he had acknowledged an omnipotent being, promised allegiance.

And then he was allowed to crawl back whence he had come. It was a pathetic retreat and he sobbed in defeat, that low chanting impregnated in his brain forever. Stinking and shivering, he knew that he did not have the strength to make it back to his bed. That was when he blacked out and was spared the ultimate ignominy.

“You’ve got a fever.”

Rankin tensed. Carol’s touch was icy to his forehead, made him shiver in the over-heated bed. He opened his eyes and was forced to squint though half-closed lids because the early morning greyness sent shooting pains of migraine proportions deep into his mithered brain. He heard the rattle of a cup and saucer on the bedside table.

“You’ve had a restless night, kicking and tossing. Twice I had to retrieve the duvet off the floor.”

“Where … where did you find me?”

“Whatever are you talking about?” There was concern in her expression. “I didn’t find you anywhere. You’ve been in bed all the time. You’ve been delirious, you woke me with your rantings. Don’t you remember, I went and made a cup of tea, gave you two aspirins.”

Rankin did not remember. “Is Glenn okay? Cathy?”

“They’re fine,” she smiled reassuringly. “Glenn appears to have slept like a log. Cathy, too. She’s gone into town to do some shopping. Marcel’s still asleep, I looked in on him.”

Rankin closed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten-fifteen, Thursday morning, and I’ve asked Dr Michalak to call round after he’s finished surgery.”

“There’s no need …”

“Yes, there is. You’ve got the flu and I don’t want to chance it turning to pneumonia. Doubtless your soaking in the churchyard the other night has triggered it off. Now, you drink your tea, lie quiet, and we’ll see what the doctor has to say.”

He became aware of the smell that emanated from his own body, seeped out of those sweat-oozing pores. Jesus, he stank like … “I need a bath!”

“You lie where you are.”

“No!” A desperation that gave strength to his weakened body, had him throwing back the bedclothes. “A good hot bath will do me more good than Dr Michalak and any medication he might give me.”

He stood up and a wave of dizziness flooded over him. For a moment he thought he was going to faint but the feeling passed. He took an unsteady step towards the door, then felt Carol’s hand on his arm.

“I’ll help you to the bathroom.” She knew that it was futile trying to dissuade her husband once his mind was made up. “And don’t you dare bolt the door.”

“I have to! Marcel might come in.” Or whatever lives in that bedroom.

“He won’t. He doesn’t believe in washing, bathing, brushing his teeth, or anything that might make him clean. Look, I’m going to change the bed, so I’ll be right here. If I hear him come out of his room, I’ll stop him from coming into the bathroom. Okay?”

“All right,” Rankin sighed, allowed her to help him across the landing.

“Call me if you want me.” She closed the door behind her, waited a moment to make sure that he didn’t shoot the bolt. The she heard the taps running and went back through to the bedroom.

She thought about calling Marcel, then changed her mind. The later he stayed in bed, the better. It helped to use up another day.

Rankin felt himself beginning to relax, as if every nerve and muscle in his body had been locked and the warm water was releasing them from some kind of paralysis. It wasn’t a fever, he was convinced of that. He had sweated and suffered delirium, but, apart from a headache, he did not feel ill. Maybe last night had been a nightmare, and he had never left his bed. Carol swore that he hadn’t but she had been asleep when he had decided to go and speak to Marcel.

He didn’t need to go into the office today. He would stay at home and prepare a feature on the dawn raids by the police and social workers. There would not be time to get it in tomorrow’s edition of the weekly Advertiser, and, in any case, there were a lot more facts that needed to come to light. Surmising was a dangerous occupation. There was going to be a long legal wrangle over the children that had been taken into care. And, hopefully, before the newspaper went to press next week somebody would have been charged with the murder of Ella Pritchard.

It couldn’t have been Marcel, not directly, anyway. Maybe he had used somebody else, like he had used the elephant to crush the zoo keeper. A psychic incitation to kill. Rankin shuddered; knowing what he did, it was not out of the question.

He thought he heard a car turning into the drive, its tires crunching on the gravel. Footsteps crossed the landing—Carol was going to the window to look out. Coming back, she tapped on the door with a sense of urgency.

“Rank?”

“What?”

“You better get out of the bath, Dr Michalak’s here.”

“Ask him to wait a minute.” Jesus, just when you thought you had five minutes to yourself somebody fouled it up.

He stood up, and that was when he saw the bruised fingernail on his left hand with a splinter embedded in it. He almost cried out aloud. Staring at it he tried to will it not to be there. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Nightmare or reality, there was no disputing the sliver of floorboard that pierced his finger.

He gripped it between the finger and thumb of his other hand and pulled sharply. The offending object came away, leaving behind a trickle of blood. And that was when Rankin’s vision blurred. The steamed-up bathroom tilted one way, then the other; he swayed with the floor, clutched at the towel rail, and held on grimly.

His injured finger throbbed in time with his head. Now another pain was starting, a sharp twinge in his chest that had his knees buckling, his arms taking his full weight. He could not breathe, he tried to shout for Carol but no words came. His fingers were relaxing their grip, any second he would crumple to the floor. That was where they would find him.

Somebody help me!

Nobody came. Downstairs Carol would be making a cup of coffee for Dr Michalak, using every tactic to stall the GP. When finally they came upstairs it would be too bloody late.

That dark abyss, the one he had slid into last night, was yawning beneath him. This time the blackness was streaked with red. The pain in Rankin’s chest was intensifying, consciousness was drifting away from him.

Then, as suddenly as the pain had come, it left. Even the pounding in his head went with it. All that remained was the soreness from the splinter. He straightened up slowly, this time the room remained firm. The swirling steam reminded him of the recent fogs, he could have imagined shapes lurking in the opaqueness.

He towelled himself, pulled his boxer shorts back on. He felt weak, exhausted, but not ill. The pain in his chest was probably muscular; he had pulled the pectoral muscle once before, some years ago. It was a frightening experience, akin to the beginnings of a heart attack. He had probably done it last night. God alone knew what had happened last night!

“Rank, Dr Michalak’s here.” Carol was upstairs again, Rankin heard the GP clear his throat meaningfully.

“All right, I’m coming now.”

Dr Michalak was not in a good mood, probably because he was inundated with home calls. His manner was abrupt, and he consulted the thermometer almost with contempt. “Normal, as I thought it would be!” He snapped his bag shut, picked it up with an air of finality. “Burning the candle at both ends, that’s your trouble.” He wagged a finger. “A day in bed is all I can prescribe.”

He turned towards the door, and Carol stood back. Rankin had been going to show the doctor his finger, but he changed his mind. Antiseptic was all that was needed.

“Well, so much for that!” Carol came back into the room; she had been unable to catch up with Michalak. He had let himself out, banging the door behind him. “You can never tell with the doc, another time he’d stop here half the morning chatting. But you’re not well, there’s no getting away from that. Exhaustion. Like the rest of us, and all due to …”

They stopped to listen and heard movements on the landing. Marcel had risen and was going downstairs.

“No!” Carol held up a hand. “You are most certainly not getting up today. If I need you, I’ll call you.”

It was all Rankin could do not to scream at her to stay. He held up his finger, tried to make light of his wound. “I picked up a splinter.”

“Nasty.” She bent over to examine it. “Where on earth did you get that?”

“I … I’m not sure.” He closed his eyes.

“I’ll get some TCP. That’ll soon fix it.” She turned away. “Hang on, there’s a car coming into the drive.”

“Probably Doc Mick came back to retake my temperature.” He meant it as a joke but it fell flat. Carol was peering out of the window, and there was no mistaking the way her body stiffened. He heard an intake of breath.

“It’s the police.” Her features were strained when she turned round. “What on earth do they want?”

“They’ve probably come to take Marcel into care.” There was a note of enforced optimism in Rankin’s tone.

But his throbbing finger was a reminder that they would not get rid of their terrible guest as easily as that. If last night had not been a nightmarish product of his terror-stricken mind, then even the police were no match for the power that some unspeakable force had bestowed upon the boy.

Sixteen

Rankin dressed feverishly, and this time Carol made no move to dissuade him. The police would not be satisfied with anybody less than the master of the house.

He fumbled with buttons, his hands shaking. There were an awful lot of questions that the police might ask; harbouring a paranormal satanic psychopath was disquieting, to say the least.

“What do you think they want?” She knew it was a silly question but she was unable to stop herself from asking it.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out!” He swayed slightly and held on to the wardrobe to steady himself.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Rank?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t. His finger was throbbing mercilessly and his pectoral twinged him again. Psychosomatic, he decided. The more he dwelled on it, the worse it would pain him. That was one of the troubles with self-diagnosis, you were conscious of it all the time because you were never really sure. Perhaps later he’d try some Arnica; Carol had an undying faith in homeopathic remedies which he had never shared. But right now he would not rest until he knew the reason for this police visit.

Chief Inspector Westmancoat looked grave and that in itself was disconcerting.

“Come into the study.” Rankin’s injured finger protested at his gesture towards the door.

“Thank you. I’d like to talk to both of you, if I may.” The policeman moved on ahead of them, possibly so that they could not see his expression.

“Certainly.” The journalist’s stomach cramped.

Then there was a moment of waiting that seemed an aeon, in which every background noise in the house was magnified out of all proportion. The clinking of crockery and cutlery from the kitchen sounded almost deafening. Marcel was always noisy where food was concerned, whether preparing or eating it. A muffled string of obscenities reached their ears. He had probably spilled his sugared cereal on the floor.

Well? For Christ’s sake, hurry up and tell us whatever you’ve come here to tell us!

Westmancoat cleared his throat. He was nervous, too. Whatever it was that he had come to say, he wasn’t finding it easy.

He took a deep breath, toyed with his fingers, traced the pattern on the carpet with his eyes. “Some bad news. Very bad, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” Carol’s hand went to her mouth. Her father had angina, he’d had it for years. Her mother hadn’t phoned for a week, Carol always assumed that no news was good news. She started to feel faint.

“Mr and Mrs Hart,” Westmancoat lowered his voice to a whisper, glanced round to check that the door was closed. “They … they were involved in a road accident in the early hours of this morning, presumably on their way home. An articulated lorry jack-knifed, slewed across the central reservation. They were both killed instantly!” Rankin and Carol stared at him in disbelief. His words needed time to sink in, they had to make an effort to understand.

“Tom … and Judy.”

“Yes.”

Silence. Rankin and Carol stared, then understood. Then came the implications, the awful realization that Marcel was orphaned. He had no parents to take him back home.

“Marcel … what will … happen to him now?” Carol asked falteringly.

“I … haven’t had a chance to look into that.” Westmancoat traced the carpet patterns back the other way. “The news only came through a quarter of an hour ago. I came straight up, I thought it best if I came myself. Perhaps you would … keep him until we can arrange something …”

“Oh!” Carol’s feeling of faintness returned. She sat down on the chair by the desk.

“I thought the social service were going to take him into care, anyway?” There was a hopelessness about the way Rankin asked the question, for he sensed its futility. Because when the chips were down they would pass the buck.

Westmancoat paused for a moment before he replied. “Well, yes. Quite. The social services have a warrant to take Marcel Hart into care, certainly. Had his parents been at home yesterday morning it would have been executed. However, as the boy was staying with reputable friends and his folks were not available to be informed of the order, it was decided to wait.”

“For how long?” Carol asked, holding her breath.

“Until they returned.”

“But … they won’t be coming back now.”

“In which case, as soon as arrangements can be made, he will be collected.”

“Today?” Oh, please God, let it be today, Rankin was mentally willing the other to agree.

“Sir, I don’t think it will be today. You see, Mr Carlyle has gone back to London and his assistant, Edith Burroughs, has accompanied him. The original plans have been suspended, and we shall have to wait for their return so that they can authorize the move. Having lost his parents, there’s no knowing how the boy will react. Consequently, it might be better not to move him until after the weekend. That decision will be made by either Mr Carlyle or Miss Burroughs. I will try and get a message to them, but I rather fancy they won’t want to disturb the boy until next week.”

Rankin’s chest tweaked him again, a sharp pain. He sat down.

“I wonder if you’d do me a favour.” The inspector was clearly relieved that they were not insisting that Marcel be removed immediately. “Do you think you could break the news to him?”

Carol and Rankin glanced at each other.

“It might be easier for him coming from friends, if you see what I mean?” Westmancoat was edging towards the door, he wanted to leave before they had a change of mind.

“I suppose so,” Rankin nodded. “But if there are any problems I shall phone you.”

“Of course.”

It was some minutes after the policeman had left before Rankin broke the silence. When he raised his head up from his folded arms on the desk, his features were pale, his expression angry and frightened.

“He killed them!” He pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “That little bastard brought about the deaths of his own parents, as surely as he’s been murdering people all week!”

“That’s rubbish.”

“No, it isn’t. He killed them to get them out of the way because he wanted total power over us!” Rankin’s voice shook. “Now we’ve got him and we’re going to have one helluva job to get rid of him. If ever!”

With a shaking voice, Carol sat back down in the chair and said, “I think you’d better tell me whatever you’ve been keeping from me, Rank. You’re not doing me any favours keeping it to yourself.”

“All right.” He sat opposite to her, held her hand across the desk, and told her.

She looked at him when he had finished, sighed deeply. “I guess it figures. About last night, I mean. I’d been asleep, then something woke me. I guess it was you crawling back into bed. I asked you if you were okay but you didn’t answer. Then you were tossing, mumbling to yourself for the rest of the night. Oh, God, what are we going to do?”

“First, we have to tell Marcel about his parents’ deaths. From then on, we’ll play it by ear, see how he reacts. If only I could get Westmancoat to take him into care. Marcel killed his folks as surely as he killed Ella Pritchard and the rest of them. But he used his occult powers, so there’s no way any evidence can be produced to find him guilty. Come on, let’s go and break the news to him.”

Marcel was still sitting at the kitchen table, an empty cereal bowl in front of him, slopped milk and Sugar Puffs spilled around it. He didn’t look up when the door opened. He was engrossed in gouging patterns on the scrubbed pine top with a marmalade coated knife. Carol checked her impulsive reprimand, a scratched table was the least of their worries right now.

“Marcel,” Rankin pushed the door closed, moved across to the table.

“Yeah?” The other did not look up, just continued with his vandalistic carving. “What did the cops want? Nothing much or else they wouldn’t’ve pissed off like they did.”

“I’m sorry, Marcel.” Rankin swallowed, words weren’t easy at such a time. It was reminiscent of that day when he’d gone straight from the hospital to break the news to his mother that his father had died. “I’m afraid we’ve got some very bad news for you.”

“Spit it out, then,” he said with sheer indifference, an arrogance that in itself was frightening. “I’ve never had any good news so one more lot of bad news isn’t likely to make much difference to me, is it?”

“Your parents are dead, Marcel.”

“Oh!” Mild surprise, the knife blade paused momentarily then continued with a horizontal line designed to complete a square. “How?”

“A road accident. This morning. They were killed instantly. That was why the police came.”

There was a tense silence broken only by the scratching of the blade. Marcel pursed his lips, and Rankin thought for one awful moment that the boy was about to start whistling. Instead, he laid down the knife, then scraped his chair round so that he was facing them. He regarded them steadily, unblinkingly. Carol backed off a pace; Rankin swallowed with difficulty. He fumbled for his cigarettes. Usually he only smoked in his own room but this was one occasion when his wife’s rules did not apply.

“Give us a cigarette, then.” Marcel’s hand was outstretched, his fingers steady as he took one from the proffered packet. He lit it, never once let his eyes leave his companions, blew out a cloud of smoke. “Thanks for telling me but you needn’t have got so worked up about it. Relax. Like me.”

Carol’s flesh crawled. She wanted to flee the room, rush to the telephone and demand that the police remove this dreadful boy from their household. But she didn’t trust her legs to take her as far as the telephone in the hall. Anyway, it wouldn’t have done any good, Westmancoat would only procrastinate. There would always be a tomorrow.

“I hated my parents, as you probably know.” That mocking smile twitched the corners of Marcel’s lips, and the cigarette bobbled, showering ash down the front of his grubby T-shirt. “They were bastards, both of them. I’m only surprised that they didn’t take you along to one of their sabbats. I suppose it was because you write for the papers, Rankin, and it was too much of a risk. I know what they’d got in store for me, oh, Christ, I know! I’d’ve ended up like Ella Pritchard. So, there was only one thing for me to do. I don’t read easy, but I could understand that diagram in my dad’s book, so I drew it just to see if anything happened. It fucking did, too! I called him up! He never returns empty-handed once he’s been summoned, you know. He might’ve taken me but he took Mr Godfrey instead. On my suggestion, struck the old bugger down in the road with a heart attack. That’s the way the Master works. If I’d wanted to harm any of you, I could have done it easily by now. But there’s no point because we’re all going to get along fine together, aren’t we?”

“What … what do you mean?” Carol had to sit down again. Her vision blurred, and Marcel’s features assumed a distended look like a rubber puppet, a caricature of sheer evil.

“Well, the social services won’t take me in if I’ve got a nice home and, on the face of it, respectable foster parents like yourselves, will they?”

“No!” Carol screamed.

“Oh, yes,” Marcel laughed, a mirthless snigger. “You owe it to me. Indirectly you made me like I am. If you two hadn’t been fucking with my parents they wouldn’t have wanted me out of the way like they did. Not quite so much, anyway. Apart from that, think of what I could tell the papers, Rankin. Not your piddling Advertiser, but those rags that like sensation for their front pages. ‘Journalist’s Sex Swap Led to Satanic Abuse.’ I can see it now. Can’t you?”

“You can’t stay here indefinitely, surely you know that,” Rankin tried to speak calmly, sternly but kindly, like a schoolmaster advising a pupil on the error of his ways.

“Why not?”

“Because …” Because we don’t bloody well want you here. “Because we’ve got our own lives to lead.”

“I won’t stop you. All I want is somewhere to sleep, meals, clothes washed. The usual. Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone, that’s the deal. Tell you what, finish decorating the spare bedroom and I’ll move into that. You’ll get to hardly notice that I’m around. Okay?”

If it had not been for last night, Rankin would, in all probability, have told the other to get packed and get out. But the threat hanging over himself and Carol was far more insidious than blackmail. Marcel could destroy them tonight if he chose, wherever he was.

“We’d like time to think about it.”

“Na!” A shake of the head, the smile was gone. “I got no time. And neither have you. I stay here from now on.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you, of course. You can kick me out now but you’ll never have another easy moment for the rest of your lives. Every minute you’ll be wondering if it’s your last. Not just you, but also Glenn and Cathy. Who knows? Even I don’t right know ’cause I haven’t made up my mind. The ball’s in your court.”

Rankin’s fists balled, they were sticky with sweat. His pectoral muscle jabbed, making him wince. His headache was returning. He glanced at Carol, her face was hidden in her hands. Logically, this was an outrageously impossible situation straight out of a trashy horror comic. A delinquent schoolboy, the son of a couple who had dabbled in black magic, had somehow wrested their dark powers from them, then destroyed them. Now he had inflicted himself upon another family and presented them with an ultimatum. Harbour me or I’ll destroy not just your lives but your souls. Your kids, too. No room for negotiation, take it or leave it, and I’m in a hurry.

“You’ll have to wipe those cabalistic markings off the bedroom floor.” Impose conditions, don’t let him have it all his own way.

“When I move into the other room then I’ll draw them there instead.”

Rankin did not reply. Carol gave what sounded like a sob. They were beaten, well and truly.

“All right, we’ll agree.”

“I knew you would.”

“But leave us and our children alone.”

“Will do, so long as you leave me alone.” They stood there, watching him slouch away from the table, nauseated by his body stench as he passed them. They heard the front door slam. Marcel was going downtown, a satanic psychopath walking the streets where the police hunted him. A predator loose upon society, protected by Rankin and Carol Gorlay.

“I am not going to stand for that boy staying here longer than the weekend!” Cathy was in one of her tantrums. “Glenn and I have put up with quite enough this week. He’s got to go!”

“The social services are going to take him into care. Chief Inspector Westmancoat is ringing me as soon as they’ve got a place available for Marcel. He told me that this morning.”

“Then ring him back now!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s hardly had time to look yet. God, give the poor chap a chance. In the midst of all this he’s got a full-scale hunt on for a child murderer.”

“I want to move back into my room,” Glenn was stubborn. “But not with him there, farting and stinking the room out. Amidst other things.”

“Give me a day or two, please,” Rankin held up his hands, “until Monday, at least. Do your own thing, keep out of his way.”

“If Marcel isn’t gone by Monday, I’m going to look for a flat in town!” Cathy was tight-lipped. It was no idle threat. The last time she had hinted at moving out, her father had given in to her and allowed her to bring her new boyfriend home. She had jilted Julian the following week, but that was neither here nor there. The mention of her leaving home was Rankin’s Achilles’ heel. At least, it had been before.

“It’s not a bad idea getting a place of your own, Cathy,” he was suddenly enthusiastic. “I mean, a lot of college girls have to live in digs. Teaches them independence.”

“Eh?” Cathy’s mouth fell open, she could not believe what she was hearing. “You what?”

“There’s several vacant flats in town,” he smiled. “Tell you what, I’ve got to pop into the office tomorrow. I’ll call in at the estate agent’s, get some details.”

“I’m going to live with Cathy,” Glenn stated.

“Well, you could always go and stay with her for a while,” Rankin smiled. “Now, let’s give it until after the weekend before any of us do anything hasty, shall we?”

“Where’s that boy gone?” Cathy asked. “He’s not in the house.”

“He went into town after breakfast. Frankly, when and if he returns is his business.”

Rankin knew that Carol had been using the telephone, the bell by the stairs always tinged when the receiver was replaced. She had probably been talking to her mother, just reassuring herself that her father was still all right. You did not overlook the remotest threat where Marcel was concerned.

He heard the study door open, close again. He glanced up from his word processor and saw Carol standing there.

“You shouldn’t be working, Rank,” she admonished him. He knew it was small talk. She had something more important to say to him.

“Dad all right, is he?”

“I don’t know. I’d surely have heard if he wasn’t. It wasn’t Mother I was phoning.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been talking to the Reverend Paxton.”

Rankin’s face drained of its remaining colour. His hands resting by the keyboard began to tremble. “You shouldn’t have done that, Carol.”

“And why not?”

“It’s too big a risk. Marcel might …”

“He hasn’t come back from town yet. He’s probably too busy shoplifting.” Or murdering.

“He has ways of knowing things.”

“Rubbish! He might have mastered some occult power but basically he’s just a nasty, malicious delinquent. I’m not taking his moving in here lying down, you know.”

The journalist sighed. “I guess not. What did Paxton say?”

“Naturally, I couldn’t tell him the whole story. But he knows all about Marcel. Who doesn’t? At least he didn’t pooh-pooh the idea of the boy being possessed by an evil spirit. He’s coming round tomorrow morning, about ten-thirty.”

“I won’t be here. I’ve got a meeting booked with the editorial staff to decide how we’re going to present the latest turn of events in next week’s issue.”

“No matter, you won’t be needed, anyway.” It was quite clear to Rankin from where his daughter had inherited her stubborn streak.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” It sounded old-fashioned.

“Like what?”

“What’s Paxton got in mind?”

“He hinted at an exorcism.”

“Jesus Christ!” Her words brought him to his feet. “Antagonize that boy and you don’t know what might happen!”

“The Reverend Paxton assures me that he’ll be diplomatic.”

“I don’t like it.” Rankin slumped back into his seat.

“You might not, Rank, but right now I’m prepared to try anything to get rid of Marcel. You might think we’re safe just because you agreed to his blackmail but I wouldn’t trust him. He’s quite capable of destroying us just as he destroyed his own parents!”

Seventeen

Friday: Halloween

The Reverend Philip Paxton was a stone overweight, his stomach overhung the belt of his capacious grey flannel trousers. He had long given up attempting to button his brown sports jacket with its leather elbow patches, and his collar gave the impression of attempting to throttle him. At forty-five he was a confirmed bachelor, too set in his routine to risk having it disrupted by any woman.

He had progressed to the rural township in stages from London, and now he had his own parish. He had no aspirations to clergical greatness, he would remain here until he retired, more years hence than he cared to calculate.

He smiled at everybody he met, whether a passing stranger in the street or one of his parishioners. His congregation had dwindled and secretly he took it as a personal affront, although nationwide church attendances were, according to a recent newspaper poll, down to two per cent of the population. People were turning away from God, and it was the Church’s own fault, they had not kept abreast of modern tastes; Paxton had even suggested in the parish magazine that church services might be “up-dated” to cater for a wider appeal. The bishop had rebuked him for expressing personal views. Which meant that everything would plod on as before and only when nobody came to worship would something be done.

This morning Philip Paxton’s smile was non-existent. He was always apprehensive where exorcisms were concerned. Whenever one was seeking a confrontation with Evil, one never knew its strength until the contest began. Every time it was a battle one had to win.

Exorcism was a gift from God, there was no way it could be learned. He had bestowed it upon Philip Paxton because He had chosen him to bear his Standard in the fight against evil. So, when somebody came to him for help, he answered the call. It was his duty.

The Hart boy was a classic example of a child possessed. There were many others but the opportunity to banish an evil spirit seldom arose because people were sceptical. They always looked for the obvious and would never admit to a belief in Satan.

Mrs Gorlay had given the clergyman a chance to strike a blow in the name of the Lord and to help a poor, demented soul at the same time. Hyperactivity was more socially acceptable than possession; diet, hypnotherapy and child psychiatry were merely feeble attempts to cure an illness that was incurable by those methods. Convention dictated the need to be doing something. But, as Paxton knew from experience, the ailment had to be attacked at its source, the evil driven out, banished to whence it had come, never to return.

He parked his Honda at the bottom of Fishmore View as instructed. The Hart boy would still be in bed if he followed form and that was best for the moment.

“Come in, Reverend.” Carol had been watching through the window for the other’s arrival, and she held the Yale so that it did not click. “Come into the lounge.” She spoke in a whisper and there was no mistaking her terror.

Paxton placed his small case upon the table, waving away the offer of tea or coffee. There was no time, moreover such substances could be harmful to his powers. Afterwards, perhaps.

“Your family? Is there anybody else here?”

“Rankin’s gone into the office, Glenn and Cathy are in town. I thought it was best if they were out of the way.”

“I would have preferred them to be present.” The flabby hand that unfastened the attaché case shook slightly. “It is preferable that members of a family are together at such times. Still, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

She felt guilty, as though she had already spoiled whatever he was going to do.

“Would you be kind enough to show me around the house, Mrs Gorlay?”

“I … if you really want me to.” She was trembling. In her mind she saw again Marcel’s features, that leering mask of malevolence, heard his words echoing in her brain. Every moment you’ll be wondering if it’s your last.

“It’s important, I assure you.” He smiled but his thick lower lip quivered. “I must make this house safe for you to live in. Failing that, I must attempt an exorcism on the boy himself, and that might not be easy. I hope that by exorcising the house, I can drive the evil out of him as well. I want to take him by surprise, otherwise he will fight all the way.”

She didn’t understand, had no wish to. “Follow me, Reverend.”

She walked on tiptoe and took him upstairs. On the landing she pointed towards the door of the spare bedroom, whispering “ He’s in there.”

After walking around the rest of the upper floor, they went back downstairs. The clergyman began setting out some items from his bag on the table. A small silver crucifix and a bottle which presumably contained holy water. He closed his eyes, crossed himself, his lips moving but no sound came forth. He was praying that God might give him strength for the task which lay ahead.

“We’ll begin,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “God, the Son of God, who by death destroyed death, and overcame him who had the power of death. Beat down Satan quickly.”

Again the Reverend Paxton made the sign of the cross.

“Deliver this house from all evil spirits, all vain imaginations, projections, and phantasms, and all deceits of the evil one and bid them harm no one, but depart to the place appointed them, there to remain forever. God, Incarnate God, who came to give peace, bring peace.”

He was moving, a clumsy, shambling gait. He uncorked the bottle, tipped some water into the cupped palm of a fleshy hand. Then flicked it. A spot landed on Carol’s cheek; she nearly cried out aloud from the icy cold.

She did not know whether to follow him, he had not indicated whether it was expected. Please, God, I don’t want to be left alone! She caught up with him halfway up the stairs.

He was sprinkling water as he went, droplets glistened on walls and furniture. He paused outside Marcel’s door, traced a damp cross on the woodwork. Carol held her breath, found herself listening intently. But there was no stirring, no sound from within. Down below she heard the booster motor in the freezer come on, a clock was ticking loudly.

The Reverend Paxton was going back downstairs.

“May I ask you to join me in saying the Te Deum?” His eyes were fixed on her, she noted with some concern that his mouth seemed to have dropped, slid sideways. His whole body trembled. It was as though he had aged two decades in the last few minutes.

Carol could not remember the words. The other’s mumbling was almost inaudible, and what she managed to hear was incoherent. He was shaking, too, and when his eyes fixed on her, she stepped back a pace. Her stomach balled, she might have fled the room except that her legs had weakened and she would probably have fallen.

“Reverend …”

“Mrs Gorlay,” his face was thrust close to hers, saliva dribbled from his lips. “Mrs Gorlay, have you ever committed adultery?”

“I … I beg your pardon, Reverend!” Indignation merged into guilt. Then into shock. And fear. The man who faced her bore little resemblance to the one who had, a few minutes ago, prayed to God that this house might be rid of all evil!

“You heard me!” He gave an enraged shout, banged the table so that the bottle tipped over. The remnants of the consecrated water spilled out, seemed to fizz on the polished tabletop. “I asked you a question and I wanted a truthful answer. Have you ever had sex with somebody else’s husband?”

She cowered. The fog outside seemed to have thickened, a dark grey opaqueness that filmed the latticed window, creating a near-dusk half-light. The clergyman’s features were in shadow, his eyes appeared to glow, burn into her. His expression was that of an enraged demon.

“I can smell an adulterer!” He screeched, reaching out to grab her by the throat with his fat hands.

Then he staggered, gave a grunt, and almost fell. He had to hold on to the table to regain his balance, and he stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he was stumbling for the door, having difficulty guiding his bulk through it. He cannoned off the doorpost into the hall; she heard him retch. Then the front door slammed and he was gone out into the fog.

Dazed and terrified, she went to the window, and looked out. But the fog was too thick for her to see his departing figure.

She went out into the hall, saw the vomit on the floor, smelled its rancid odour and nearly threw up herself. With shaking hands she grabbed the receiver off the wall phone, had already begun to dial before a terrible realization struck her.

There was no dial tone.

PC Wimslow’s attention was drawn to the red Honda which passed him in the opposite direction. No lights were showing, not even side lights in spite of the grey murkiness which reduced visibility. Today, the fog was not going to give way to bright sunshine, it had merely receded as if it eagerly awaited the latter part of the day when it would roll back, blotting out the town and the surrounding landscape.

He might have let the offending vehicle go its way with no more than a muttered remark concerning the parentage of its driver, but Wilmslow glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw how the car straddled the middle of the road, forcing oncoming traffic to pull over so that they risked scraping the vehicles parked on the opposite side. Driving too slow, erratically; his trained observation categorized the symptoms, came up with the cause almost immediately. Drunk driving.

He could not overlook the incident, especially on a Friday when the town was packed with shoppers, pedestrians jay walking, and kids wandering off the pavements. He looked at his watch—11:10. Most of the pubs had only just opened. The driver had probably come from an all-night party, and was more than likely twice or three times over the limit.

Wilmslow did a U-turn in the cattle market entrance, joining the queue of traffic heading uphill towards the town centre. Christ, he hadn’t time to crawl, he’d surely lose his man. He switched on his beacon, pulled out. The approaching cars gave way, left him just enough room to squeeze the Maestro through.

Even at a meandering twenty miles per hour, the other had a head start on him. The traffic congestion would have helped the miscreant. There was nowhere for the other to turn off, and the parked Honda would have been only too visible. He just had to keep going, win or lose, cross the river bridge, give it a three-mile run out of town before conceding defeat. Once his mind was made up, he never changed it. He who hesitated was lost.

The guy had shifted. Maybe once he was clear of the town his caution had deserted him, and he had put his foot down hard, perhaps even guessed that there was a police car on his tail. Wilmslow was up to fifty miles per hour, about the maximum he dared risk in these foggy conditions. It looked like the bastard had given him the slip. No, by Christ, he hadn’t!

The constable hit the brake pedal hard and squealed to a standstill. The Honda was pulled up on the verge, two wheels still on the tarmac.

Wilmslow got out, walked towards the car, mentally rehearsing his script. Excuse me, sir.; you appeared to be driving rather erratically. Nor were you showing lights in poor visibility. May I see your driving license? Have you been drinking, sir?

You could always tell by experience, you only asked as a formality. I shall have to ask you to take a breath test, sir. You had to get it word perfect, play it strictly by the book; one slip-up and the magistrates would throw the case out on a technicality. Then you got a bollocking from the Chief Inspector.

“Excuse me …”

The car was empty. The engine ticked over, threatened to cut out at any second.

Only then was the officer aware of his surroundings, and the realization sent icy prickles up and down his spine. The narrow country road, bordered by that crumbling stone wall. A gap on the top where you could clamber over, drop down into the wilderness of weeds and dying nettles on the other side. An eerie silent place, the domain of the dead. It was the disused cemetery where Ella Pritchard had been murdered, the sacrificial victim of a black mass.

He hesitated, thought about calling for backup on his radio. And a right bloody fool he’d look, wasting other officers’ time in the midst of a murder hunt. The bloke had only gone for a piss. The old cemetery was an obvious choice when your bladder was bursting.

Would you be good enough to give me a urine sample, sir?

Wilmslow stood listening. The only sounds were the dripping of fog-soaked foliage and the car’s engine. The spiders had been busy for there were webs everywhere. Out here away from the town, the mist was thicker. He cleared his throat. Hurry up and finish your leak, I’m in a rush.

The Honda gave up the struggle to maintain a tickover, spluttered and died. The ensuing silence was overpowering. Menacing.

Don’t be bloody stupid. Wilmslow approached the wall, remembered how he had scaled it the last time. It’s broad daylight now. Well, sort of. He had to go in there and find that guy; in all probability the chap had sensed he was being pursued and was now trying to escape. He might even head across country, back to town, and return for his car later. “It broke down, Officer, that’s why I abandoned it. It starts all right now, probably just the damp. No, I hadn’t been drinking, never touch the stuff when I’m driving.”

I’ll get you, you bastard! Wilmslow bore a personal grudge against drunk drivers. They killed, as surely as murderers and drug peddlers did. He pulled himself up on to the top of the wall, dropped down on the other side.

He couldn’t see much, just silhouettes and then only those in the immediate vicinity. Listening again all he heard was the drip of moisture. The fool was hiding somewhere.

He saw the well-trodden track leading off through the undergrowth; the one he had followed on the previous occasion. Gorlay, Marcel, Ella Pritchard, her killer, they had all come this way. He shivered uncontrollably, then shrugged off his nagging fear. It was all in the mind. He remembered for the first time that tonight was Halloween.

The headstones jutted up like broken giant’s teeth. He threaded his way through them, almost believing that this was some bizarre game, the object of which was to find your way to the other end. If you didn’t, you wandered round in never-ending circles with the fog thickening all the time so that you got lost. Wilmslow got a grip on himself, this place gave him the creeps. Was it any wonder …

Christ! A shape that was definitely no forgotten tombstone loomed up out of the mist and made him jump. A man. A hunched figure, sitting with its back towards him, oblivious to his presence.

Of course it was a man. He had come in here to look for one—the missing driver of the Honda parked out on the road. Drunk, of course, he had come in here to sober up.

Wilmslow would have to arrest him, take him back to the station.

“Are you all right, sir?” Formal, see how he reacts.

The figure neither moved nor replied, just sat staring in the opposite direction. Wilmslow tensed, trying to convince himself it was just the fog that was making him nervy. He had arrested dozens of drunks in his time, it was a routine procedure. He moved forward warily.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I knew you’d find me, Officer.” The voice had a note of relief in it. “I’m glad it’s all over.”

“I followed you out of town, sir.”

“Don’t worry, officer, I won’t give you any trouble.”

“I’ve reason to believe you’ve been drinking.” The constable forgot the “sir” this time.

“Drinking? Goodness me, no, Officer. I’m a teetotaller, always have been.”

Wilmslow licked his lips, there was something decidedly strange about all this. “All the same, sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take a breath test.”

“You’d better arrest me, Constable.”

“Only if the test proves positive.” The policeman was beginning to have his doubts.

“I killed her, you know.”

“Who?”

“Ella Pritchard!”

PC Wilmslow stiffened, backed off a pace. They had already had four people confess to the killing. Nutters. This one made five. And drunk to boot.

“Come back to the car with me, please, sir. I must insist that you take a breath test.”

“As you wish, Constable.” An outstretched hand held up something. “Here, this is the knife I slit her throat with. Go on, take it, man, you’ll need it as evidence. Your chaps have been looking for it, I guess. They’ve been looking for me, too. Now you’ve found me.”

Wilmslow took the knife, held it between forefinger and thumb. The six-inch blade looked as though it was rusted, the jewelled hilt would have scintillated if the sun had been shining.

“The Master is more powerful than God, you know.”

“Is that so?” Wilmslow wrapped the knife in a tissue and dropped it into his pocket. This was crazy, he wished that he had listened to his intuition earlier and radioed for help. “You’d better accompany me to the police station.” If we just follow the well-trodden track back we’ll surely come to the boundary wall. Won’t we?

“Of course.” The other half turned and had some difficulty getting to his feet.

Then he turned fully and was no longer a silhouette. Wilmslow recognized the features and he was unable to suppress his gasp of disbelief. No, it couldn’t be! The voice had been vaguely familiar, but he hadn’t paid too much attention to it. Until now.

“She had to die, you know,” the Reverend Philip Paxton smiled benignly, as saliva dribbled from his slanted mouth. “She’s a lucky girl, young Ella, condemned to a deprived life until the Master took her for his very own. I’m honoured that he chose me to sacrifice her to him. I’m sure your chaps will understand, Officer. The Dark One himself will be coming soon. I have been told that on very good authority. His coming is nigh. It’s Halloween you know.”

PC Wilmslow took the clergyman by the arm and led him gently back along the track.

Eighteen

Rankin was not feeling well. His chest pains were more frequent, painful tweaks that lasted anywhere from two to ten seconds. He promised himself that he would call in at the evening surgery on his way home.

He ought not to have left Carol and Glenn and Cathy in the house with Marcel. He had phoned Chief Inspector Westmancoat to make a last desperate plea to have the boy taken into care, but it appeared that the highest rank available was the station sergeant. Rankin had an uneasy feeling that something had happened, some development that required the services of every available officer.

The editorial meeting went on until lunchtime. Ella Pritchard’s murder would take up the front page of next week’s issue, and they needed an inside feature on satanic worship. Shit, maybe Marcel would like to help with that one!

At 12:45 the news came in that there had been an arrest in connection with the killing. A man was currently “helping the police with their enquiries.” By 1:00 p.m. Rankin heard that the suspect was the Reverend Paxton. The journalist’s pectoral muscle gave another power surge; a wave of dizziness distorted his vision. It was like the persistent fog outside had seeped into the press office blurring everything.

He reached for the phone, punched the digits with a shaking finger. Something had gone drastically wrong with the clergyman’s exorcism. Marcel must have got to him. The boy needed a scapegoat, and he had used Paxton.

The line was engaged. Rankin slammed the receiver back on its cradle.

“What’re you getting worked up about, Rank?” Jimmy Lowder, the senior reporter, looked up. “Don’t take it personal, man. We got some big stories, we can sell syndication rights. For the time being, you gotta go with the flow, as they say. Talking about going, you going out to lunch?”

“Later,” Rankin shook his head, the mist before his eyes cleared. “I’ve got one or two things to tie up first.” Carol was obviously phoning somebody, probably her mother. She might be another half hour. He’d try again at one-thirty.

“You gotta eat.” Jimmy unwrapped a filled roll, took a bite, and spoke with his mouth full, “Gotta look after yourself else that’s how you get ulcers. Can’t say I’m surprised about the sky pilot.”

“Aren’t you?” Rankin raised an eyebrow and paused in his scribbling. “Why’s that?”

“Never did trust parsons. They think they’re holier than thou but look how many are queers, interfering with choir boys and the like. Like school masters and choir masters and boy scouts leaders. Do-gooders.”

“And reporters.”

“Hey, that’s stretching it!” The other blew crumbs all over the desk.

“They’ll probably release Paxton without pressing charges before teatime,” Rankin said.

He tried to call home at ten-minute intervals and all he got was a busy signal. He thought about going back home, just for a quick check. Damn it, he needed some fresh air. Well, as fresh as you would get on a day like today.

“There’s a police press conference at four-thirty,” Barnes said as he came out of his office. “You’d better go, Rank. Right now there’s an army of hopefuls on their way from London, I guess. Not to mention that there are those that have been staying in town waiting for something to break.”

“I’ll be there.” Rankin moved away from his desk. “I’ve got to pop home first. I’ll call back in before I go to the police station.”

The fog certainly wasn’t going to clear today. An aura of weak golden sunshine made one valiant attempt to penetrate the murkiness, then gave up. Cars were driving on dipped headlights. There was a queue outside the fruiterers opposite where a pile of giant pumpkins was fast diminishing. An assistant in a grubby overall put a tray of swedes out on the pavement. Make-believe demons would haunt the streets tonight.

Rankin detected a buzz of excitement and relief, in the street gossip. “Have you heard, they’ve caught Ella Pritchard’s murderer? They say it’s a vicar! Would you believe it? Twenty years, they’ll let him out in ten. Ought to bring back hanging, that way they don’t get the chance to do it again. Maybe they’ll return them kids to their parents now. All that fuss and it turns out it was a clergyman that was doing it.”

Rankin felt weak and drained as he walked down the rows of cars.

He missed the Subaru. He didn’t need its 4x4, not today, anyway, but it gave him a feeling of superiority over other motorists. It was a boost and he badly needed one now. The hired Escort seemed so ordinary, so run-of-the-mill. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat. It was going to be a slow crawl out of town and back. In all probability, everything was fine at home; as fine as it could possibly be with Marcel in the house. Glenn and Cathy would be keeping out of the way, Carol would be doing everyday chores. It was anybody’s guess what Marcel was doing; probably making a Halloween lantern in an attempt to enhance his sinister image.

The engine groaned, but didn’t fire. Rankin tried it again; it was even weaker this time. Sod it, the battery was flat. He checked that he hadn’t left his lights on, and then thought about wiping the leads off. He didn’t have the energy.

He would go back to the office, and phone the hire firm. They’d send somebody out to get it started for him. Jesus, he didn’t relish the walk back up the hill. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep.

He mustn’t. Like an explorer, lost and fatigued in the arctic wastes, if he slept, he died. He tried to laugh at the parallel that had sprung to mind but it wasn’t funny. Because Marcel had sabotaged the car before.

He started to panic. He hadn’t been able to get through on the phone, now his car was immobilized. Because Marcel was up to something, and he didn’t want him back!

Rankin called upon every reserve to revitalize his sapped energy. The remedy was simple, he’d call a taxi. There was always one waiting for hire in the Square.

He opened the door, grabbed at it to haul himself up. He half-made it, then the pains hit him again with such force that he cried out aloud. Not twinges this time, instead deep thrusts that seared into his chest that had him writhing on the seat.

The car door slammed shut with a thud, a coffin lid closing on its corpse for the last time. The fog eddied, a thick grey shroud to hide him from the view of passers-by, to muffle his weakening calls for help.

The greyness was darkening, afternoon turning to night with frightening rapidity. Somewhere, far away, he could hear voices, the rattle of supermarket trolleys. Shoppers congregated to gossip as they packed the boots of their cars.

Rankin gave up his fight. The blackness was engulfing him, already the pain was easing. One final disconcerting thought—they had charged the Reverend Paxton with murder, but as long as Marcel remained at large, the killings wouldn’t stop.

Unconsciousness claimed Rankin Gorlay, and he slumped across the front seat of the Escort.

“Well, I didn’t have any option other than to charge him.” Detective Inspector Grey’s sallow features wore an expression of perplexity, and there was doubt in his voice. “He’s confessed. So have five others so far. I’ve done everything to disprove his statement. I can’t. He had the knife which killed the girl, his footprints were all over the scene of the crime. But …”

“Like me, you think there’s something we’ve missed,” Chief Inspector Westmancoat shook his head. “Our job is to catch the murderer. It’s up to a jury to decide whether or not he’s guilty.”

“Yes.” Grey stared out of the window at the thickening fog. “His knowledge of satanic rituals is immense, and he performs exorcisms. Apparently, he did one up at the Gorlays this morning.”

“Oh?”

“It concerned Marcel Hart, the kid whose parents were killed on the M54. We’ve reason to believe they were into this devil worship. The boy was on the social services’ list to be taken into care. We know for a fact that he’s been mucking about in the old graveyard. This whole business is fraught with pitfalls. We’re missing something, you know.”

“A number of kids have been fooling around with those graves. If Paxton was so inclined he could have killed any one of them. Ella Pritchard just happened to be unlucky enough to be there at the wrong time. We’ll have to talk to the Hart boy, see if he’s been involved with the clergyman, and if so, to what extent.”

“The Hart boy’s still with the Gorlays?”

“Yes, it was easiest to leave him there for the moment. Carlyle will doubtless take him in when he gets back from London next week. Want to go and talk to the kid again?”

“Not at the moment. I guess we can call off the murder hunt, get a few much-needed men back on to routine duties.”

“I’d just like another word with Paxton,” Westmancoat said as he got up from his desk.

“He’s in the cells. He’s flipped, all right. Apart from his confession, I can’t make any sense out of him. I’ve asked him about the Hart boy but I can’t get a straight answer. Says he wants to help him.”

“I’ll try.”

Grey led the way through the main office where uniformed and plainclothes police were working on files and computers. There was an unmistakable atmosphere of restrained euphoria; it was typical when any murder hunt had been brought to a conclusion. There was still much work to be done, and the winding up would take a couple of weeks. Then there would be the trial, so completion was a long way off. Of course if the defendant was found not guilty then the case would have to be reopened.

“I’ve got to host a press conference in half an hour.” Westmancoat wished that he could have delegated the job to someone else. Reporters did everything to try to trip you up, hung on your every word, and then took things out of context. “All I can tell ’em is that a man has been charged and he’ll be appearing before a special sitting of magistrates first thing tomorrow. Reporting restrictions won’t be lifted.”

“He’s in number three,” Grey paused in front of a steel door, jangled a bunch of keys. “I doubt you’ll make much headway, though.”

The door swung back on well-oiled hinges, revealing a small brick-built cell with a barred window high in the far wall. A table and chair stood in the centre, and there was a fixed bunk against the right-hand wall.

The Reverend Paxton lay sprawled on the bunk, facing away from the door, still clad in his creased, mud-stained tweed sports jacket and grey flannel trousers. A nauseating odour filled the room which had Westmancoat momentarily holding his breath.

Grey’s outstretched hand shook the motionless figure by the shoulder, gently but firmly. The head rolled over, the features upturned, staring at them with wide, unseeing eyes.

“Oh, my God!” Westmancoat stepped back involuntarily.

“Jesus Christ!” Grey leaned over the still form, felt for a pulse but knew he wouldn’t find one. The stench was overpowering where the bowels had been released at the moment of death.

Both men backed off. There had to be some mistake.

But there was no mistaking the expression of sheer terror in that rictus, the way the gaping mouth was still screaming mutely, those dead eyes wide from the sight of something that no human being had any right to witness.

And the cell reeked of a stench that was more than just the smell of death and the excrement of a corpse. It was the foul odour of bestial evil.

Nineteen

Carol Gorlay gave way to blind panic.

The telephone wasn’t working, he had sabotaged it somehow, probably cut a cable outside. The hallway stank of the vicar’s vomit, something had sent him mad; he had arrived here a God-fearing man intent on banishing evil from the house, had stumbled out a raving imbecile.

Marcel had got to him. The boy who was Satan’s spawn had overcome the power of good in the struggle, and now ruled supreme in this household.

Carol fled for the doorway. She had to escape from here, flee into the fog, find her children, warn Rankin. Vainly she struggled to open the front door. The catch appeared to have jammed, perhaps a spring had come loose when Paxton had banged it behind him.

She was sweating, trembling, as she turned and ran for the kitchen, glancing up the stairs, fearing Marcel stood on the landing above, mocking her. This is what happens to you when you try to fight me, Carol Gorlay!

The back door refused to open, too.

She rattled the knob, but the key seemed to turn a trifle too loosely as though it wasn’t working the tumblers. She exerted force; the key snapped in her hand. Oh, God, please save me!

She saw the window, an opaque grey curtain shrouding the outside, condensation trickling down the pane. Another moment of hope, frantically she scrambled up on to the sink unit, grabbed the sash. She pushed with all her strength, grunted under the strain.

But the window was stuck fast as surely as if the frame had been screwed into the sill.

She climbed back down, grazing her leg on the cupboard knob. She began to sob, and fought against hysteria. You little bastard, after all that we’ve done for you!

She slumped into a chair, buried her face in her arms on the table. At least the children weren’t here. When they came back she would scream to them to keep away. Go and tell your father, but don’t any of you come into the house! They probably wouldn’t be able to gain entry, anyway.

She was a prisoner in her own home. In her own kitchen! She wasn’t going upstairs, she daren’t. Neither was she going into the hall. She would stay right here, she didn’t have any choice.

Carol was oblivious of time; it might have been dusk or it could just have been the fog thickening in readiness to blank out the town tonight for …

All Hallow’s Eve.

She started, jerked upright. Her ears picked up the steady crunching of gravel on the drive as if some unspeakable monster was grazing it, crunching it. Then she heard the steady, barely audible, sound of an engine ticking over sweetly. A car had turned in from the road.

It had to be Rankin returning from the office.

She ran for the hall and screamed, “ Rank, don’t come in. Go away!”

There was a pause, and then the doorbell chimed. Twice.

Carol halted, drew back. Her husband wouldn’t ring, he had a key. Unless, of course, he had lost it or left it at the office.

“Don’t come inside!”

The knocking that followed echoed right down the hall. Then a voice that was certainly not Rankin’s yet was vaguely familiar asked, “Mrs Gorlay?”

“Y-yes”

“Are you all right?”

No, I’m bloody well not all right. “Who is it?”

“Police. PC Wilmslow.”

Sheer relief flooded over Carol and was dashed immediately. The police could not help her. Nobody could. “I’m afraid the lock’s jammed. The back door as well. And the windows.”

“Try it again, please.” There was a hint of disbelief in his voice. Have you been drinking, Mrs Gorlay?

“Oh, all right.” She stretched out a trembling hand knowing the catch wouldn’t move.

It did. It slid with perfect precision, the door swung open and she found herself staring into the perplexed features of the young constable.

“Just a temporary fault.” He seemed ill-at-ease, nevertheless. “May I come inside?”

She stood back, resisted the urge to scream a warning at him. He closed the door for her, fidgeting.

“Is anything wrong, Constable?” She knew that something was by his expression. Marcel Hart’s upstairs, at least, I think he is. Please take him away.

“I’m afraid your husband has been taken ill.”

“Oh!” She swayed, held on to the small mahogany table. “What … what …”

“A suspected heart attack. He’s in the hospital. Looks like he collapsed in his car in the car park.” Wilmslow got it all out in a rush. “I can take you there right away if there’s nobody around to drive you.”

“Yes. Yes, please.” She was already pulling the door open, she wouldn’t bother with a coat. “Please take me to him, Officer.”

It was a nightmare journey, a frustrating crawl through the thickening fog, long queues at junctions and traffic lights. They didn’t talk, there was nothing to say. It was no time to make polite conversation. Then a sudden awful thought ripped through her tortured mind like an electric shock, had her gripping the sides of the seat. Cathy and Glenn were out somewhere, they would surely be returning home soon. To Marcel.

“My kids are out in the town,” she said weakly.

“They’ll be all right. The town’s full of kids. I’ve never seen so many Halloween lanterns before. Don’t you worry about them, Mrs Gorlay. They’ll probably go back home.”

Of course, they would.

Wilmslow parked in an ambulance bay, waited for her to get out. “I hope your husband will be all right, Mrs Gorlay.”

She turned away and hastened through the swing doors into a world of dazzling brightness where everything smelled of antiseptic. It was such a contrast, such a relief, from the fog and the terror outside.

“Mrs Gorlay?” The tall dark-haired sister smiled as she came out of her office in the corridor. Experience had taught her how to allay the fears of relatives. You softened the blow, you never raised hopes that were likely to be dashed. “I’ll take you to your husband now. He’s not nearly so bad as we feared when he was brought in. A very mild heart attack, just a warning. Is he under stress?”

“Yes.” Christ, aren’t we all!

“Then we’ll keep him in for a day or two. He’s responding to treatment very well. He needs rest. The doctor thinks that this was brought on by exhaustion.”

“That’s a strong possibility.” Carol resisted the urge to dash on ahead of the other. “He’ll have to take it easier.” But first we have to get rid of Marcel.

Carol had expected to find her husband in the intensive care unit, wired up to a cardiograph. Instead, he was sitting up in bed in a small private ward drinking a cup of tea. His complexion was pallid, only his expression revealed the anguish he suffered.

“Damn this!” He put his cup and saucer on the bedside table. “I’ve a good mind to discharge myself …”

“You’ll do no such thing!” She snapped. “I’m in agreement with the sister, you should stay in here for a few days.”

“What! Not with that little fiend …”

“He’ll be gone by the time you come home.” She wasn’t used to lying and hoped that she made it sound convincing. “The policeman who brought me down, PC Wilmslow, assured me that Marcel is being taken into care.”

“When?”

“After the weekend.” She swallowed, hoped that he did not notice.

“How, for Christ’s sake? That kid’s more powerful than a few country cops, like as not he’ll turn them into frogs or something. Or worse.”

“No, he won’t.” She closed her eyes and lied frantically, “in fact, he’s looking forward to going. I don’t think, after all, that he relishes the idea of living on Fishmore for the rest of his life. Once a Sandpits kid, always a Sandpits kid, or something like that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“All right, but you’re staying here until he’s gone. Then we’ll all be able to relax.” She glanced at her watch.

“What’s the matter?” He noticed how she fidgeted. “In a hurry?”

“Glenn and Cathy are in town, I was hoping to find them. They don’t know about you yet. There was no time as the police brought me straight here.”

“You can tell them later. It’s not serious after all, just a scare. I mean, I could have been rushed into hospital with an appendix.”

“I won’t rest until I’ve told them.”

“Oh, very well.” He gave her a kiss. “Here, you’d better take the car keys, it’s on the top car park near to the entrance. Why don’t you come back later?”

“Because,” she found the instant excuse, “you’ve got to sleep. I mean, if it was serious then they’d let me sit by your bedside all night. As you say yourself, it’s only a hiccup, you’ve just got to rest. Now, you make sure you do that, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once out of the ward, Carol hurried down the corridor, afraid that the sister might delay her again. Out through the swing doors, she stared in dismay at how the fog had thickened in the last twenty minutes.

She had to find her son and daughter. Fast. They could be anywhere in town since the shops would not close for another half hour yet. Or they could be home already …

No, please, not that! She forced herself to think of the places where they might be. The library? Cathy could have gone there, but it was unlikely that Glenn was with her as books didn’t interest him. In which case they would have arranged a meeting place. The Olive Branch or Aragon’s. She quickened her pace.

They were not in either of the restaurants. Hurrying through the streets, she made a tour of the block just in case. Heads turned, eyes watched her, passers-by sensed that she was panicking. The first of the lighted lanterns were appearing, grotesque swedes and pumpkins with leering candlelit features. Mocking her.

She found herself shying from them; every one of them reminded her of Marcel. Truly this was a night of evil.

Carol knew that she had to go home, that by now Glenn and Cathy were probably already in the house. She shuddered.

Damnation, the car battery was flat! She groaned, thumping the steering wheel in her frustration. Maybe Rankin had had his heart attack before he had discovered the Escort wouldn’t start or else he had forgotten to tell her.

She slammed the door, left the keys dangling in the ignition. Bloody good luck to anybody who managed to steal it!

The fog was so thick that she could barely discern the lighted exit. It would take her maybe twenty minutes to walk home. The prospect of the walk didn’t bother her. Her greatest fear was what she might find on her arrival.

“Look, somebody’s been sick!” Glenn recoiled inside the hall, bumping into Cathy. “God, it stinks!”

“Ugh!” She turned her head. “I hope it isn’t Mother. It’s probably that boy, been stuffing himself with sweets and chips, and smoking on top of them. Where’s Mother?”

“Mother?” Glenn shouted up the stairs. There was no answer.

“Maybe she’s ill.”

Cathy held back, afraid to go upstairs. In a way the house seemed different. So cold. You sensed it wasn’t empty but whatever was here was threatening. Hostile.

They looked at the stairs, looked at each other. “We’d better check,” Cathy whispered. “Hold my hand, Glenn.”

Glenn’s fingers found hers; she had asked him, he had not lost face. He said, “Mother’s probably in bed. Dad should be back soon.”

Up on the landing it was even colder than downstairs; the light seemed dimmer, too. They walked stealthily, listening. But there was only silence.

The main bedroom was empty, the bed neatly made, the curtains open.

“She’s not there,” Glenn voiced aloud their thoughts. “She’s probably gone to the office to wait for Dad.”

They checked Glenn’s room. It was empty, too. Only then were they aware that the spare bedroom door was wide open, the light from within slanting out onto the landing, a soft glow that flickered eerily, casting weird shadows on the wall. Shapes that moved, changed, came and went.

Glenn’s grip tightened on Cathy’s hand. He wanted to tug her back towards the stairs but for some reason she resisted him. She stepped forward, took him with her.

No, Cathy, please. I don’t want to see.

Now they could see into the room, and they stared with terrified eyes. They wanted to flee but their limbs refused to obey their brains. Every nerve, every muscle, was rigid. Their cries of terror were no more than frightened whispers.

Marcel had cleared the floor space, the bed had been pulled into a corner, the decorators’ trestles and dust sheets piled on it. And on the bare floorboards were those strange chalk markings which Marcel had drawn in the adjacent room; circles within circles, a “way to the treasure.” Four candles burned at each point of the compass, sticks of black wax in black holders, their flames flickering and giving off pungent tallow fumes. Shadowy shapes moved across the walls and ceilings, silhouettes that seemed to be stalking the perimeter of the cabalistic circle as though seeking a means to penetrate it.

And within the circle itself stood Marcel Hart, an overweight naked figure that might have seemed comical in any other situation. But not here. His posture was that of a beast at bay, crouching, snarling, eyes smouldering with fanatical power.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he hissed. “I knew you would come. Your mother escaped the house but she will return.” His outstretched finger crooked and beckoned. “Come and join me, let us wait for her together. But first, remove your clothes!”

“No!” Glenn clung to Cathy and began to cry softly. He felt her tense, knew that she was fighting the power that Marcel wielded, but it was a futile battle.

“Do as he says, Glenn,” she muttered, extricated her hand from his, tugged at the fastener on her jeans.

Glenn found himself doing likewise, baring his body, kicking his cords away, pulling his shirt over his head.

“Hurry!” Marcel was becoming impatient. “The night has already begun.”

The candles wafted, their flames horizontal, as a gust of icy wind threatened to extinguish them. Then they were burning brightly again, the shadows darting away as if they feared to be seen.

Cathy walked unsteadily forward, Glenn following close behind her. She reached the perimeter of the circle, then stopped as though she had encountered some invisible barrier.

“Enter!” Marcel shouted. “Quickly!”

They passed through, feeling as though they walked on air, that the force of gravity no longer existed. It seemed, too, as if that invisible barrier which had parted to allow them to pass had closed behind them. They stood there, holding on to each other, shaking with fear and cold.

“Good.” Marcel’s lips stretched into a bestial smile. “Sit down, close your eyes for fear of what you might see. Soon your mother will come and join us. Then, together, we wait. Tonight, the Master himself will come. I have summoned him. And once summoned, he does not return empty-handed!”

Twenty

The streets seemed unending. Landmarks were enshrouded in fog and barely recognizable. Evil lantern features glowered luminously, bobbed menacingly in the orange-tinted murkiness. Their evil eyes followed Carol Gorlay, caught up with her, overtook her. Confronted her.

“Trick or treat?”

She hurried past them, heard a shrill voice behind her shout, “Bitch.”

She ran until she was out of breath, then slowed to a fast walk, coughing as the damp atmosphere infiltrated her heaving lungs. Under the railway bridge there were more fiery, grinning heads with wide jagged mouths and tongues of fire.

He killed Ella Pritchard. He’ll kill your children, too. You’re all going to die.

She hurried on, even though it seemed that her legs would not make it up the steep hill. Somehow they did.

A light showed in the hallway, the rest of the house was in darkness. She panicked again in case her key refused to operate the front door lock and gasped her relief aloud when it did.

She stepped inside, scarcely noticed the stink of vomit, and stood listening; just the ticking of the clock, the hum of the freezer motor. Somewhere a floorboard creaked. Nothing else. She tried to tell herself that Glenn and Cathy had not come home yet. But she knew that they had and she guessed that they had gone straight upstairs to their rooms, to play music on their respective cassette players.

There was no music playing.

She mounted the stairs, using the rail to pull herself up. The soft, flickering light coming from the partly open doorway of the spare bedroom drew her like a night moth to a lamp, had her creeping towards it, frightened to look.

She looked.

Oh. God in heaven!

Carol saw the three of them inside the circle, Glenn and Cathy lying motionless with their eyes closed, Marcel crouched between them. All were naked.

Anger transcended her terror momentarily. That filthy boy had been molesting her children, had enticed them into some vile act of depravity. She gave a shriek, hurled herself forward, her fists clenched to pummel his leering face, pound it until it was an unrecognizable, bloody mulch.

It was as if she had run into an invisible door. Something threw her back, hurled her to the floor. For a second everything went black, then she tasted blood in her mouth and groaned.

“Take off your clothes and join us, Mrs Gorlay/’

Carol lay there dazed and frightened. “I won’t, damn you!”

“You will.”

With a shock she realized that her shaking hands were already fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, popping one in her unwilling haste to tear the garment from her. Cringing, inhibited at the prospect of revealing her nakedness to this disgusting boy, kneeling in subservience, awaiting his next command.

“Enter the circle, Mrs Gorlay.”

She stood up, had difficulty in keeping her balance. One step. Two. This time nothing impeded her progress.

Carol lowered her head in shame, prayed that she could somehow save her children. She knew that she was totally powerless to prevent Marcel from doing anything he wished; they were all his slaves, would do his bidding, perform any act he demanded, however depraved.

“Lie down with the others.”

There was just room within the cabalistic circle to accommodate all four of them, their bodies touching, flinching at the contact with one another.

“Whatever happens, none of you must step outside the circle,” Marcel spoke in a flat, expressionless voice as if he was repeating lines which he had learned from somewhere, a part in a school play. Except that this was no enactment. It was for real.

“Mummy,” Glenn stirred, his eyelids flickered. “I’m frightened.”

“It’s all right, darling, I’m here.” Carol reached over and took his hand. It wasn’t all right, far from it. Glenn hadn’t called her “mummy” since he was seven.

Cathy’s hand came across, the three of them held on to one another. Even Marcel seemed disturbed now, no longer his arrogant self.

“Why are we here?” Cathy asked in a whisper.

“The Master will come tonight. It is his night,” Marcel muttered. “I’ve summoned him. As I’ve already told you, he will not return empty-handed. I have sacrificed others to him but he is still not satisfied, he is hungry for more.”

“Ella Pritchard for one,” Carol said dazedly, “also the zoo keeper, the potato vendor …”

“Several others,” the boy boasted. “You should not have called in that vicar, it has angered the old one. Even the clergyman’s sacrifice has not appeased him.”

“Why are you doing this to us, Marcel?”

“Because I hate you!” It was almost a scream. “I hate my parents, too, and I’m glad they’re dead. I killed them, just as I killed the others. They knew my powers, they were frightened of me. They wanted to get rid of me but they couldn’t. Day by day, night by night, I was becoming more powerful than them. They would have initiated you but for me, they guessed what I might do to all of you. My father was very powerful but once I had the secret of the circle, I knew that I could rule him. At least … I thought so until …”

“Until what?” Carol was shivering uncontrollably. The room temperature could not be far off freezing. Glenn and Cathy were huddled up against her.

“We shall see.” The other’s expression was one of fear, as he darted glances into the shadows, afraid that he might see … something. “I should not have summoned the Master but it is too late now. I wouldn’t have called him if I’d realized … I have begged him to spare me.”

It was so frighteningly unreal, like a fevered nightmare, but Carol knew it was happening. The room was becoming colder by the second, and the candles were fluttering. They might go out and commit the occupants of the circle to the terrors of impenetrable darkness. Whatever was out there, whatever Marcel had called up, she prayed that it would take her and spare Glenn and Cathy.

Please, take me!

“You tried to kill Rankin!” She screamed the accusation at Marcel.

“No.” He had lied many times before but she sensed that he was not lying now. “I could have killed him any time I’d wanted, I could have killed all of you. But I didn’t because I was saving you for tonight, for the Master!”He was shouting hysterically.

“Then you are responsible just the same.” She had to shout because the wind was getting up, buffeting the house, rattling the windows. “You brought stress and terror into this house, gave him a heart attack.”

“A … heart attack?” Marcel’s expression changed to one of surprise, then he laughed. “Then he is weakened. Surely the Master will take him as well tonight!”

Carol flexed her fingers. She wanted to encircle Marcel’s neck, use every vestige of her waning strength. She wanted to watch as his eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue protruded from between blue and swollen lips, listen to the breath being squeezed from his nicotine-coated lungs; feel him go limp in her grasp, shake him like a limp mawkin in a farmer’s field. Cast him outside the circle, carrion to be scavenged by the thing which he had called from beyond the grave. Watched as some creature that had no right to be upon this earth picked his bones clean.

“You can’t harm me,” Marcel laughed but it was a hollow sound, there was fear in his wide eyes. “The Master will protect his spawn.”

She sensed that the boy’s hold over them was weakening. He backed away a pace, glanced down to ensure that he did not step outside the circle. She felt a relaxing of his hold over her, and her hands were already beginning to reach out for him when the icy gust hit her.

So cold, it numbed her. There was no feeling in her limbs. Her hair streamed, and Glenn and Cathy clung to her, fearful of being swept away in that arctic tornado which seemed to have sprung up within the room itself. Marcel fought for his balance, arms windmilling.

And at that moment the candles were blown out, plunging the room into stygian blackness.

Darkness and yet there was light. As those within the circle clung fearfully to one another, the room was lit by a faint, almost luminous glow, an ethereal glimmer that shimmered as if it, too, shivered in the icy temperature. The wind dropped as suddenly as it had begun, the smoking candle wicks gave off a pungent aroma of throat-searing tallow.

But there was another smell, one that was becoming stronger with each passing second, that had the occupants of the room choking and retching. It was a stench of excrement and foulness that might have come straight from the lair of some awful beast that messed and slept in its own dung, a creature too terrible to contemplate.

It began with a shadow on the wall, a black shape that grew and took on a third dimension, sprouted legs and arms, then a head. Eyes burned from deep sockets, nostrils flared and snorted as the stentorian lungs began to breathe; the mouth opened and gave off the fetid smell of a living corpse. Whatever this being, whence it had come, it brought with it the stench of gravesoil, putrefaction and the ultimate in evil.

“The Master!” Marcel shrieked his terror and began to babble incoherently.

Glenn and Cathy buried their faces against their mother in an attempt to shut out this awful apparition. Carol tried to jerk her gaze away but something a thousand times more powerful than Marcel’s hypnotic spell held her, forced her to watch.

Whatever this thing was, and she was too terrified even to hazard a guess, it was assuming a form that was vaguely human. One that stood upright with difficulty for its nature was to walk on all fours. A shaggy predatory beast that had come straight from hell to hunt human prey, stalking around the perimeter of the cabalistic circle, denied entry by the one power that was greater than its own.

Frustrated, it pawed the floorboards, scratched with ragged toenails, hunched itself into an infuriated squatness, trembled with a rage incarnate. Only then did those who watched in terror see its face for the first time.

Marcel was screaming hysterically. Carol’s vocal chords had ceased to function. Her brain reeled, refused to accept recognition, rejected a face which had once been familiar to her and now leered at her with undisguised lust. Features that had once pressed against hers as that body, now disfigured out of all proportion, had moved rhythmically with hers in an act of adultery, had mated with her. And now it wanted her body again, its own dead flesh aroused as it scented her.

For the being which Marcel had somehow summoned from beyond the grave was none other than his own father. Tom Hart had returned to claim his mistress.

Twenty-one

“And just where do you think you’re going, Mr Gorlay?”

The ward sister stood in the doorway, staring in disbelief. Half an hour ago Rankin had been sleeping peacefully, now he was fully dressed and shrugging himself into his jacket. There was an air of urgency about his every movement that had her fearing an instant relapse. All of which confirmed her conviction that even patients in the hospital’s small private wards should have their clothes sent home with their next-of-kin and only returned on the day of their discharge.

“Mr Gorlay, get undressed and get back into bed. At once!”

“I’m discharging myself, Sister,” he spoke quietly and began walking towards the door.

“You are not!” She barred his path with her bulky, imposing figure.

“I’m afraid I am. Now, if you would kindly step aside …”

“You are required to sign a form dissolving the hospital from all responsibility …”

“Put it in the post and I’ll send it back by return.” He rudely pushed past her, and did not look back.

“Wait a minute …”

But Rankin Gorlay was not waiting for anybody. Increasing his step, his footfalls echoed in the deserted corridor. He could not risk any delays as he pushed his way out through the swing doors and into the fog enshrouded night.

He knew he had to get home as quickly as possible, already it might be too late. He should have gone before but he didn’t have the strength then, had not realized the implication of Carol’s haste to leave him. She was afraid for the safety of Glenn and Cathy, and she dared not confide her fears in him because of his condition. Normally, neither he nor Carol worried when their children were in town. Carol certainly had tonight but he had been too dazed by his collapse to see the extent of her concern. Also, it had slipped his mind to tell her that the hired Escort had a flat battery; she would have wasted valuable time finding that out.

He had to get home. Fast. Something was wrong. Drastically wrong.

It was the start of evening visiting time, and there were a few vehicles parked out on the hospital car park. An ambulance stood in the bay alongside a doctor’s car. Through the fog he saw the twin beams of approaching headlights, made out a neon beacon on the roof as the vehicle approached. Taxi.

“Fishmore View,” Rankin was alongside the cab even as the passenger was alighting. “And if you’re on waiting time I’ll pay you double.”

“Jump in, mate.” Obviously the taxi-driver considered a return fare a bonus on a night like tonight. “Ten minutes, fifteen, maybe, in this pea-souper.”

However long the journey took, Rankin hadn’t timed it, it seemed an eternity. Much to the driver’s amazement he didn’t wait for three pounds change out of a fiver.

The house was in total darkness. Rankin stood in the drive, listened to the pounding of his own pulses, the distant bang of a pre-November the fifth firework. There must have been a power cut. No, he could just make out the lights of the house next door and, anyway, the streetlamps were on. But not so much as a sliver of welcoming light squeezed out through his own front door.

Maybe Carol was still out searching for Glenn and Cathy, or they had met up and gone for an Indian meal in town. And to hell where Marcel was! No, he was just trying to think things right again when they were dreadfully wrong.

He knew damned well in his over-worked heart that they were all in there.

The front door was ajar. He pushed it open carefully, and turned his head at the stench of vomit. Somebody had been ill. Oh, Jesus!

He could not remember where the torch was, but there was no time to look for it. He flicked his cigarette lighter, saw the spew on the floor just in time to sidestep it. He made for the stairs.

God, it was deathly cold in here. It stank, too.

And there was definitely somebody upstairs, he could hear them moving about. He opened his mouth to call out, then changed his mind. He would find out soon enough what was going on.

The landing was lit up by a soft glow, a luminance that came from the open doorway of the spare bedroom, as if bright moonlight shone in through the window. No, it wasn’t moonlight, it was too early yet, and there were no streetlights at the rear of the house. Cold, clammy fingers clutched at his heart, stroked the back of his neck. There was only one way to find out.

And at that moment he heard Carol scream.

Jesus alive! Rankin recoiled from the doorway, his brain refusing to accept what his eyes saw. The room was lit by that eerie glow, enough to see every detail. His family cringed inside the cabalistic circle, all of them naked and Marcel cowered before some awful monstrosity that stalked around the outer chalk marking. The thing turned its head at his approach, and that was when Rankin screamed, too.

The half-human, half-animal form itself was enough to snap the mind, the way it loped and shambled, grunted and snuffled mucus in its dilated nostrils. But it was the instant déjà vu of those features, familiar even in their twisted deformity, that had Rankin Gorlay’s heart threatening to cut out for the second time that day. A sharp pain stabbed in his chest. His hand went to it, the other was thrown up in an instinctive attempt to hide his eyes from the being that turned to confront him.

“Tom … Tom Hart!”

It grunted again. Whether or not it recognized him, he did not know. And when he squinted over his crooked arm, it had its back to him again. It was pointing into the circle, a finger moving from Glenn to Cathy. To Carol.

The Master of Darkness never returned empty-handed. He was carefully selecting his victim.

Carol closed her eyes and stood up, mutely offered herself as a sacrifice to whatever evil power stood before them. Tom Hart it had once been. Maybe even God did not know what it was now! Take me, spare my children and my husband!

She did not know what Rankin was doing here, perhaps it was a mirage sent to taunt her.

Whatever it was out there, however powerful, it could not penetrate the circle. But it could command you to leave her sanctuary of chalk lines, answer its call. Offer herself as a sacrifice of blood and flesh to satisfy its hunger and lust.

Carol felt its eyes on her, and her legs weakened, her skin crawled.

Tom, if it was he, lusted for the pleasures she had once given him. And then those eyes moved on.

“No! Not Glenn! Not Cathy! Nor Rankin! Please.”

But it was Marcel he chose. Cathy’s pity went out to the one who was Satan’s spawn. She tried to open her eyes but they were locked shut. She felt him stagger past her, heard his bare feet padding.

Then he was struggling and kicking, maybe trying to scream through a coarse, claw-like hand that was clapped over his mouth to stifle his cries. A naughty boy who had stayed out late, been caught in the park, carried home forcibly by his angry father.

By his father …

Carol knew that she was going to faint, tried to lower herself down on to the floor before she fell. Aware that she was slipping sideways, her fall broken by a cushion of unconscious bodies.

Far away she thought she heard one last feeble cry from the boy who was being taken home by his father. The Master had come, he had made his choice, and he had not returned home empty-handed.

The lights were back on, the central heating had switched itself on and was already thawing out the freezing cold house. Carol helped Rankin downstairs, Cathy had dressed Glenn and the two of them followed.

“I guess that’s the end of it,” the journalist looked weak and drained. “In the end Tom Hart came to our rescue.”

“How do we account for Marcel’s disappearance?” Carol placed four mugs of tea on the kitchen table and sat down.

“That’s not a problem,” Rankin smiled weakly, sipped his tea. “Dozens of delinquents like him run off every day. The police and the social services will list him as missing. He’ll just never turn up.”

“Poor boy.”

“Don’t go feeling sorry for Marcel. He was evil, through and through, even if it did come from his folks. There was only one thing that could destroy him, whatever it was that created him. And, thankfully for us and a lot of other folks, it did just that.”

“And you are not going into the office next week.” Carol wagged a stern finger in the direction of her husband. “If you really need an excuse, you can always pop back into hospital for a few days.”

“That might not be a bad idea.” Rankin grinned. “Then somebody else could set to and write up the features for next week’s issue. It’d be interesting to see what theories they come up with …”

Outside, a group of children were trick or treating with pumpkin and swede lanterns, trying to scare one another in the dense fog. They had had a lucrative evening, their pockets jangled with coins that would more than finance the coming firework night.

They paused at the entrance to the wide, gravelled drive, grouped for safety at the sound of approaching footsteps. A man’s voice cursed incoherently; a boy shouted muffled protests as he was dragged or carried, they could not determine which. Mutely they sympathized with the miscreant. They had all been fetched home by an irate father at some stage in their lives.

All the same, they, erred on the side of caution, and gave that house a miss. It was time to pack up, anyway. The autumnal night had suddenly turned very cold.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the sixty-first book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the mid 2013.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

19. Warhead.

20. Manitou Doll.

21. Wolfcurse.

22. Crabs On The Rampage.

23. The Pluto Pact.

24. Entombed.

25. The Lurkers.

26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.

27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.

28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.

29. Blood Circuit.

30. Accursed.

31. Sabat 4: The Druid Connection.

32. The Undead.

33. Crabs' Moon.

34. The Walking Dead.

35. Throwback.

36. The Wood.

37. The Neophyte.

38. Abomination.

39. Snakes.

40. Cannibals.

41. Alligators.

42. Bloodshow.

43. Thirst II: The Plague.

44. Demons.

45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.

46. Fiend.

47. The Island.

48. Mania.

49. The Master.

50. The Camp.

51. The Festering.

52. Phobia.

53. The Unseen.

54. Carnivore.

55. The Black Fedora.

56. The Resurrected.

57. The Knighton Vampires.

58. Witch Spell.

59. The Plague Chronicles.

60. The Hangman.

61. The Dark One.

The next book will be :

62. Dead End.

"Driving instructor Max Frame ends up in hospital after a car crash, his girlfriend Shanifa doesn’t survive. But soon after recovering, he sees Shanifa going into the Ghetto, a derelict zone traditionally regarded as a no-go area, which parents use to scare their children with: it’s where you go when you’ve been bad, and you have to cope with the Downers, half-animals who serve as the requisite bogeymen. Everybody’s heard the stories, nobody believes them. But when Frame goes looking for his dead girlfriend, he finds that the reality is worse than any story."

Recently published (but not part of back catalogue conversion) :-

Night of the Werewolf

The Eighth Day.

Killer Crabs: The Return.

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.