Peter straightened up. It was useless looking for tracks, and even if he found any he probably wouldn't recognise them. He found himself listening intently; there was just a steady drip-drip of moisture falling from the saturated conifer foliage. Otherwise silence. The raven had gone. It had no cause to remain now that its carrion feast had disappeared.
Oh God, what was he going to tell Janie? He'd have to lie, and lie convincingly, that he'd buried the creature. And just pray that it didn't turn up somewhere in a day or two. No way could he tell her the truth.
He was just about to retrace his steps when his strained ears picked up a sound amidst the gentle fall of the dripping damp. He tensed and tried to recognise it. Footsteps coming this way, but certainly not human. Something else, a steady munching sound as ifas if whatever it was was chewing on something likelike the raw, bloody flesh of a dead cat!
Stark primeval fear drove him back against a tree trunk, his spade raised like a caveman's club poised for a fight to the death with a prehistoric monster. Cold sweat was running down his face now, and he smelt his own scent of fear.
The noise grew louder; feet were scraping over the hard ground, coming this way. He thought briefly of flight, but knew his legs wouldn't make it. Whatever it was, he was afraid it would run him down and hunt by scent if it couldn't see him through the fog, then tear him apart as it had the cat.
He stared ahead until his eyes hurt, seeing shapes that weren't there. The mist was playing cruel tricks that had his pulses racing, his heart thumping until he thought it would surely burst.
Then he saw it. He tried to tell himself that it was the ram that had been lost in the forest at the weekend, but it was too big, with branch-like horns that thrust this way and that. It stood erect as it smelled Peter.
That was when he began to shout an incoherent, meaningless barrage of words that were meant to frighten, but they died away to a hoarse whisper as he cowered back, the spade suddenly too heavy to wield.
Now it saw him as it turned in his direction. And his mind pictured the mangled remains of Snowy, the granary cat, and remembered what its fate had been.
7
Realisation comes gradually in the depths of the ultimate in fear. For Peter Fogg it came agonisingly slowly. The creature materialised out of the mist, a savage beast of unknown species, a fearsome thing that stared fixedly at him with wide eyes and then in a second was gone, leaping back, twisting and turning, racing in full flight. And all that was left was the drumming of hooves that seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Not just one set, many of them, a pounding herd that even now caused the rocky ground to vibrate as they embarked on headlong flight.
'Jesus Christdeer!' He spoke aloud, lowering his spade to the ground and leaning his full weight on it. He was sweating heavily and a terrible sinking sensation in his heart and stomach had knotted his guts so that he almost vomited. Not quite. God, it was a good job nobody could see him like this becauseor could they!
He found himself glancing around, feeling that even now somebody was lurking out there in the dense low cloud watching his every movement. But that was silly, because if he couldn't see them, whoever they were, they couldn't see him. It was as simple as that. His nerves getting the better of him, the way Janie's did, and he was succumbing to primitive childish fears; pull the bedclothes up over your head because the bogeyman's watching you.
He gave a laugh. It sounded strange, a kind of cackle, but it helped. He'd been scared to hell by a bloody roe buck, the most shy and gentle of ah" creatures, just because he'd no idea that deer roamed these hills and forests. But it didn't explain the cat's disappearance. That was the most worrying factor of all.
He shouldered his spade and began the steep trek downhill. He was surprised how quickly the cottage with its adjoining granary appeared before him out of the gloom. The stone circle was a lot closer than he'd thought.
He started when he saw Janie in the doorway. She must have heard him coming. Or else she had been standing there ever since he'd left.
'Whatever's the matter?' There was an expression of alarm on her face, and her body was tense as she gripped the doorpost.
'Nothing.' He made a show of picking a piece of slate and scraping the spade with it. Some particles of rust flaked off, powdered like dust; maybe she'd believe it was dirt from digging. 'Nothing at all. Everything's OK.'
'No it isn't. Don't lie, Peter; don't try and fool me, because I know it isn't. You've had one hell of a scare. I can tell that just by looking at your face.'
'All right, I've had a bit of a fright.' He leaned on the spade again, thinking that he should have known all along that he wouldn't be able to fool her. 'There's deer here, Janie. A big herd, judging by the sound of their hooves in the fog. They came upon me in the fog; a bit unnerving when you find yourself face to face with a creature that size before you can identify it. Like that ram that came out of the forest on Saturday.'
'You haven't buried that cat, have you!' Oh God, female intuition again. Or perhaps he had not been away long enough. He'd lost all track of time.
'No.' He gave up trying to lie, 'I haven't.'
"Why not?'
'Becausebecause it's gone!'
'Gone!' Janie was gripping the doorpost with both hands now. 'What d'you mean, it's gone!'
'Just that. Something must have taken it. A fox maybe.'
'But you said it was hanging high up in a tree, as high as your head. How could a fox possibly get it down? It's something else that's taken it, isn't it? The Wilsons or those two poacher chapsor something else!'
'We're letting our imaginations run away with us.' He dropped the spade and pushed past her into the house. 'A string of coincidences which we're interpreting the wrong way.'
'There's something sinister going on here/ She followed him into the hall. 'I don't know what it is, but we've suddenly found ourselves caught up in it.'
'Let's not go into all that again. There are perfectly logical reasons for everything that's happened, I've no doubt whatsoever. It all stems from a peasant family who hate the English, coupled with the fact that I've stopped them from hiking on these fields, where they've probably come scrambling ever since they were old enough to ride. I'm going to make some son of a hutch for that rabbit.'
He wasn't going to get any work done today, that was for sure. Better to occupy himself with something mundane, not that carpentry had ever been one of his special talents. He'd hated woodwork at school, even more than metalwork. But suddenly it was a kind of therapy. He found a hammer and some nails and went up into the granary, taking a sadistic delight that he could suddenly hit something.
The task was completed in less than ten minutes, simply because he found an old hen coop that needed no more than a little restoration: new hinges on the lid and some loose nails knocked back in. Well, he could go back to his work now if he wanted. But he knew that he would not settle to writing that day. He had recovered from the shock of the deer, but the missing cat still plagued him. It had to be the Wilsons; he told himself over and over again that it couldn't be anybody else. But even so he could not dispel the lingering doubt at the back of his mind.
He went back down to his study and decided to rearrange the books on the shelving. Just for something to do until he fetched Gavin at four o'clock. He hoped the boy was OK. Maybe now that he had a rabbit he wouldn't ask about the cat. Neither Peter nor Janie had the nerve to lie convincingly any more, but they'd have to try if need be.
Peter sat in his car outside the school playground and watched the children coming out. He picked out the Wilson twins, Mark and Jon, and his jaw tightened. Instinctively he was clenching his fists. Little bastards, he'd like to smash their bloody faces in and listen to them pleading for mercy; the older ones, too. That one he'd knocked off his bike had been lucky not to break an arm or a leg.