'Why God help us, Declan? Are you afraid of something?'
He made no reply.
'If you know something about these experiences that I don't ... please tell me. I want to know, to understand. God, I have to understand.'
Declan pursed his lips. 'Well ..." his eyes became more indecipherable than ever; and for the first time Coot caught a glimpse of a ghost behind Declan's eyes. Was it despair, perhaps?
'There's a lot of history to this place you know,' he said, 'a history of things ... on this site.'
Coot knew Declan had been delving into Zeal's history. Harmless enough pastime: the past was the past.
'There's been a settlement here for centuries, stretches back well before Roman occupation. No one knows how long. There's probably always been a temple on this site.'
'Nothing odd about that.' Coot offered up a smile, inviting Declan to reassure him. A part of him wanted to be told everything was well with his world: even if it was a lie.
Declan's face darkened. He had no reassurance to give. 'And .there was a forest here. Huge. The Wild Woods.' Was it still despair behind the eyes? Or was it nostalgia? 'Not some tame little orchard. A forest you could lose a city in; full of beasts ...'
'Wolves you mean? Bears?'
Declan shook his head.
There were things that owned this land. Before Christ. Before civilisation. Most of them didn't survive the destruction of their natural habitat: too primitive I suppose. But strong. Not like us; not human. Something else altogether.'
'So what?'
'One of them survived as late as the fourteen hundreds. There's a carving of it being buried. It's on the Altar.'
'On the Altar?'
'Underneath the cloth. I found it a while ago: never thought much of it. Till today. Today I ... tried to touch it.'
He produced his fist, and unclenched it. The flesh of his palm was blistered. Pus ran from the broken skin.
'It doesn't hurt,' he said. 'In fact it's quite numb. Serves me right, really. I should have known.'
Coot's first thought was that the man was lying. His second was that there was some logical explanation. His third was his father's dictum: 'Logic is the last refuge of a coward.'
Declan was speaking again. This time he was seeping excitement.
They called it Rawhead.'
'What?'
The beast they buried. It's in the history books. Rawhead it was called, because its head was huge, and the colour of the moon, and raw, like meat.'
Declan couldn't stop himself now. He was beginning to smile.
'It ate children,' he said, and beamed like a baby about to receive its mother's tit.
It wasn't until early on the Saturday morning that the atrocity at the Nicholson Farm was discovered. Mick Glossop had been driving up to London, and he'd taken the road that ran beside the farm, ('Don't know why. Don't usually. Funny really.') and Nicholson's Friesian herd was kicking up a row at the gate, their udders distended. They'd clearly not been milked in twenty-four hours. Glossop had stopped his jeep on the road and gone into the yard.
The body of Denny Nicholson was already crawling with flies, though the sun had barely been up an hour. Inside the house the only remains of Amelia Nicholson were shreds of a dress and a casually discarded foot. Gwen Nicholson's unmutilated body lay at the bottom of the stairs. There was no sign of a wound or any sexual interference with the corpse.
By nine-thirty Zeal was swarming with police, and the shock of the incident registered on every face in the street. Though there were conflicting reports as to the state of the bodies there was no doubt of the brutality of the murders. Especially the child, dismembered presumably. Her body taken away by her killer for God knows what purpose.
The Murder Squad set up a Unit at 'The Tall Man', while house to house interviews were conducted throughout the village. Nothing came immediately to light. No strangers seen in the locality; no more suspicious behaviour from anyone than was normal for a poacher or a bent building merchant. It was Enid Blatter, she of the ample bust and the motherly manner, who mentioned that she hadn't seen Thorn Garrow for over twenty-four hours.
They found him where his killer had left him, the worse for a few hours of picking. Worms at his head and gulls at his legs. The flesh of his shins, where his trousers had slid out of his boots, was pecked to the bone. When he was dug up families of refugee lice scurried from his ears.
The atmosphere in the hotel that night was subdued. In the bar Detective Sergeant Gissing, down from London to head the investigation, had found a willing ear in Ron Milton. He was glad to be conversing with a fellow Londoner, and Milton kept them both in Scotch and water for the best part of three hours.
'Twenty years in the force,' Gissing kept repeating, 'and I've never seen anything like it.'
Which wasn't strictly true. There'd been that whore (or selected highlights thereof) he'd found in a suitcase at Euston's left luggage department, a good decade ago. And the addict who'd taken it upon himself to hypnotise a polar bear at London Zoo: he'd been a sight for sore eyes when they dredged him out of the pool. He'd seen a good deal, had Stanley Gissing -
'But this ... never seen anything like it,' he insisted. 'Fair made me want to puke.'
Ron wasn't quite sure why he listened to Gissing; it was just something to while the night away. Ron, who'd been a radical in his younger days, had never liked policemen much, and there was some quirky satisfaction to be had from getting this self-satisfied prat pissed out of his tiny skull.
'He's a fucking lunatic,' Gissing said, 'you can take my word for it. We'll have him easy. A man like that isn't in control, you see. Doesn't bother to cover his tracks, doesn't even care if he lives or dies. God knows, any man who can tear a seven-year-old girl to shreds like that, he's on the verge of going bang. Seen 'em.'
'Yes?'
'Oh yes. Seen 'em weep like children, blood all over 'em like they was just out of the abattoir, and tears on their faces. Pathetic.'
'So, you'll have him.'
'Like that,' said Gissing, and snapped his fingers. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily, 'Sure as God made little apples, we'll have him.' He glanced at his watch and then at the empty glass.
Ron made no further offers of refills.
'Well,' said Gissing,' I must be getting back to town. Put in my report.'
He swayed to the door and left Milton to the bill.
Rawhead watched Gissing's car crawl out of the village and along the north road, the headlights making very little impression on the night. The noise of the engine made Rawhead nervous though, as it over-revved up the hill past the Nicholson Farm. It roared and coughed like no beast he had encountered before, and somehow the homo sapiens had control of it. If the Kingdom was to be taken back from the usurpers, sooner or later he would have to best one of these beasts. Rawhead swallowed his fear and prepared for the confrontation.
The moon grew teeth.
In the back of the car Stanley was near as damnit asleep, dreaming of little girls. In his dreams these charming nymphettes were climbing a ladder on their way to bed, and he was on duty beside the ladder watching them climb, catching glimpses of their slightly soiled knickers as they disappeared into the sky. It was a familiar dream, one that he would never have admitted to, not even drunk. Not that he was ashamed exactly; he knew for a fact many of his colleagues entertained peccadilloes every bit as off-beatas, and some a good deal less savoury than, his. But he was possessive of it: it was his particular dream, and he wasn't about to share it with anyone.
In the driving seat the young officer who had been chauffeuring Gissing around for the best part of six months was waiting for the old man to fall well and truly asleep. Then and only then could he risk turning the radio on to catch up with the cricket scores. Australia were well down in the Test: a late rally seemed unlikely. Ah, now there was a career, he thought as he drove. Beats this routine into a cocked hat.