'What about Holly?'
'Take her with you. Jesus, they'll love it.'
Her smile wasn't natural. 'OK, I'll think about it.'
Once she'd gone Punch crept into the room, cautiously skirting the baby and settling down in the corner where he could look at Jon, who flicked through the channels, stopping when he saw An American Werewolf in London starting on Channel Five.
'Hey Punch, this is a class film,' he said, crossing his legs. He watched the opening credits. Shot after shot of bleak and forbidding moors, their upper slopes shrouded in low cloud. His mind went to what had recently happened on Saddleworth Moor and the film took on a new poignancy.
The two young American backpackers clambered from the rear of the sheep truck and made their way into the isolated village, experiencing a frosty reception from the flat cap-wearing locals in the pub called The Slaughtered Lamb.
'Typical bloody Yorkshiremen,' muttered Jon, wondering exactly where the film had been shot.
Unwelcome in the village, the Americans headed back out across the moor. When the bloodcurdling howl pierced the darkness, Punch's ears pricked up and he looked around.
'It's only the telly, boy,' Jon chuckled, realising his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.
The beast attacked seconds later, tearing one tourist to shreds and slashing the cheek of the other before the locals gunned it down. The survivor then awoke in a London hospital, but it wasn't long before he started dreaming of forests and racing through the trees in pursuit of deer.
As Jon continued to watch he could feel sleep creeping up on him also. He sat upright, determined not to nod off before Jenny Agutter's shower scene with Van Morrison singing that it was a marvellous night for a moon dance in the background.
Moments later the scent of pine began filling the air around him and he looked up at the dense canopy of branches above his own head. Dots of sunlight shone down, speckling the carpet of pine needles at his feet. He had a rucksack on his back and was walking fast, a sense of urgency spurring him on. Each footstep created a soft crackle in the silent wood. He wondered why he was hurrying when a branch snapped somewhere off to his side.
'Oh no,' he groaned, breaking into a jog, guessing what the dream would lead to.
He weaved between the tree trunks, rough bark catching on his clothes as a sickening fear rose in his throat. A keening cry suddenly cut through the forest. It was a desolate and terrible sound, the noise a creature makes when it needs food.
The terror that now flooded him was clammy and cold. It was a terror that came from the knowledge that what hunted him could not be reasoned with. It possessed no compassion because it was not human. It was a primeval force, merciless in its savagery.
Jon blundered onwards, now able to hear his pursuer as it raced through the trees behind. As hard as he tried, Jon couldn't break into a sprint. His legs were heavy and sluggish, despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The creature was closing in, its call getting louder and more insistent.
Desperately Jon tried to drag himself out of the dream, his sweaty back tingling with the anticipation of the claws that he knew were about to puncture his flesh. In the nick of time his eyes snapped open and he found himself staring at the television. The film had ended but the shrill noise still filled the room. He looked down and saw Holly wriggling on her mat, face red and mouth open. Punch was lying next to her, gently licking the top of her head, trying to offer some comfort.
Disoriented, Jon slowly stood. 'It's OK,' he said to both of them. He bent down and picked Holly up before stumbling into the kitchen to get a bottle.
Six
It was late by the time Peterson got to the car park at Daisy Nook. To his annoyance, he'd fallen asleep in front of the box, waking up well past midnight, an erection jutting out from his jeans. Time to get that sorted he decided, reaching for his car keys.
As his headlights illuminated the parking area, Peterson frowned. It was tiny, or perhaps intimate was a better word. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Shit, the only ones likely to be out this late on a weekday night were people like him — the desperate, who didn't need to bother getting up the next day for work. And the sad fact was, all too often those ones weren't that bothered about personal hygiene either. What had the guy on the forum said? Ten o'clock onwards, Peterson thought.
He swung his car round and reversed into a corner, headlights facing outwards so he could signal any arrivals. Turning his lights off, he left the engine idling and reclined his seat slightly, leaning the back of his skull against the headrest. Darkness was all around, thick and heavy, pressing in on the windows. He liked the dark, the way it aroused people's more basic desires. How many acts that would cause outrage if performed during the day, safely took place under the cover of night?
With his eyes half shut and a hand massaging his groin, he watched for the telltale sign of any approaching headlights. The minutes ticked slowly by. From somewhere nearby an owl hooted, the call both forlorn and inquisitive. Is there anybody else out there, it seemed to say.
Peterson was beginning to wonder the same thing. He lowered a window to let in some air. A single light twinkled far across the fields and a sheep bleated. What if I'm in the wrong car park, he suddenly wondered. There could be another one on the other side of the park. I didn't think to check the map properly. A sudden image of a busy car park flashed across his mind, men clambering from one vehicle to another, perhaps a young chicken who would come over to Peterson's car…
With the thought that he was missing out tormenting him, Peterson turned off his engine and opened the door. The interior light came on and he squinted at the sudden brightness. After climbing out and shutting the door behind him, he tried to examine the tarmac itself, looking for signs of recent activity. Wedged-up tissues, discarded condoms, empty bottles of pop- pers.
But the light inside his car had messed up his ability to see. The darkness swam with unnatural reds and oranges, blinking reviving a burning comet-shaped ball from where he'd glanced at the bulb itself.
Car keys dangling from his fingers, he slowly made his way across to the other side. Something was on the ground. He crouched down and patted the tarmac, fingers making contact with an empty packet of cigarettes. Looking up, he could see that the thick undergrowth separating the car park from the fields beyond was now only a few feet away. Bulky white forms seemed to float there. Sheep, slowly making their way from the field's edge. There was a strange smell in the air, sharp and musty. Cheap aftershave? He heard a sound close by and slowly stood. Was it a cough? His night vision was beginning to return, the swirls of colour fading to reveal his surroundings in a monochromatic grey.
He sensed more than saw something near the tree. 'Hello?' Peterson said, heart quickening with the thrill of someone else being there. 'There's no reason to be afraid.'
He peered at the area below the branches, trying to detect forms in the dark shadows lurking there. Then he stepped closer, holding a hand out. 'Please, I think we're looking for the same thing. There's no need to be shy.'
Was that the shape of something crouching at the base of the trunk? Something denser, blacker than the shadows around it? Peterson leaned forwards. That smell again. Not aftershave. More the tang of something unwashed.
With a sudden snarl, an inky mass shot upwards and outwards. Frozen to the spot, Peterson felt his eyes instinctively widen, allowing a fraction more light on to his retina. Pointed ears, a muzzle, something swinging towards his face. The impact caught him on the side of the neck, raking downwards across his throat. He wasn't aware of stepping backwards, or even falling, but now he was on his back, the black form moving in a blur above him as his torso rocked with fresh blows. Feebly, he lifted a hand to defend himself. His fingers made contact with thick, coarse fur before his hand was knocked away. Now there was liquid flying around, landing on his face, getting in his eyes. Rain? No, the droplets were shooting upwards, out of him. When he tried to shout only a bubbling rasp escaped.