What the hell had happened to Peters? Certainly a terrible blow of some kind had smashed his skull, killing him instantly. But who had done it and for what reason? And where was Don Peters' poaching partner, Mick Bostock? Was he lying out there dead in the drifts, too?
Peter found himself doing a host of unnecessary things that he would not have bothered with under different circumstances. Like checking the doors to ensure that they were all locked and bolted, although that had been his first task upon his return to the cottage. And lifting the telephone receiver to see if by some miracle it was working againbut of course it wasn't. Then cleaning the shotgun again; he might need it very soon.
A tiny portable transistor radio stood precariously on the mantelshelf. It had been one of Gavin's presents last Christmas, and Peter wondered why the boy had not taken it with him; probably because it wasn't much good, more of a crackling toy than anything else, cheap imported junk.
Nevertheless Peter switched it on, primarily because he needed something to break the silence. Anything.
I should be listening for them coming.
The transistor crackled over a background of unrecognisable pop music, some disc-jockey shouting to try and make himself heard above it. Maybe he realised that people somewhere were foolish enough to buy three quid trannies like this and was doing his best to help them. Not that Peter was interested in the DJ's verbal garbage. It was just another human voice, even if it did sound like a dalek. In a while, Peter grinned wryly to himself, he'd end up talking back to itand that would be a damned sight worse than talking to himself.
It was at that moment that the light dimmed, flickered. And went out.
Darkness! Maybe he'd slipped down into the black abyss of oblivion at last and his brain had burst because he couldn't stand any more. But he knew he hadn't because the DJ was still gabbling incessant nonsense, putting another disc on his ever-spinning turntable, and he certainly wouldn't be in the chasm of nothingness. Which meant Peter was still in Hodre.
The sudden plunge into darkness didn't come as a mind-shattering shock. Possibly his nerves were acclimatising to a series of crises so that they accepted them. He found himself wondering why the power had failed. Doubtless a cable somewhere had snapped under the weight of the snow. Or maybe it was something simple like a blown fuse. He'd better check . . .
The voice coming from the transistor had changed from inane rambling to a more serious tone. And the music seemed to have faded from the background but he couldn't be sure because the crackling was louder again.
'. . . a news-flash.'
, Peter tensed in the darkness; it was as though he had the telephone receiver to his ear and the voice was talking to him, giving a message of vital importance: You can't afford to miss it. Listen carefully, it's a bad line. And bad news.
' . . . break-out earlier today . . . police have launched a massive search . . . people in remote areas of these . . . warned to stay indoors after dark . . . this man is ... life-sentence for the murder of ... police spokesman said today . . . known to be dangerous . . . warned not to approach him if seen , . . contact your local police station or tele-. phone . . . believed to be heading in ... Welsh mountains ...
The crackling wasn't entirely the transistor; a buzzing in Peter's ears somehow seemed to be related to the pile-driving headache and the drumming of his pulses. The DJ's stupid banter began again, with the kind of sick joke that might scare the hell out of anybody living alone, something about 'watch-out if there's a knock on the door; it could be that escaped maniac dropping in to listen to Record Roundup.' Bloody idiot!
Heading in the direction of the Welsh mountains. . . Peterfelt himself go cold. An escaped maniac on the loose, heading for the Welsh mountains. Here. Hodre!
That was stupid, letting his imagination run riot. The Welsh mountains covered a huge area; the fugitive could be anywhere. That in itself was a disconcerting thought.
First he had to try and get the power restored, if that was possible. He groped, found his torch and went in search of the fusebox. The pantry was the best place to look.
Right first time. And all the fuses were OK. At least, they seemed to be; he couldn't find one that had blown, and anyway there didn't seem to be any spares. That meant it was a cable somewhere, brought down under the weight of the snow or . . .
He went back into the kitchen and picked UD the gun and cartridges. Upstairs was the obvious place to withstand a siege. The bedroom window commanded a wide view of the ^<'vered slopes and the stone circle. The enemy didn't to come that way, though. They might circle round and ic in from the front. Even so, they had to mount the stairs "to get to him, and he could hold off an army that way. Provided the attackers were human. Of course they were. Hadn't he wounded one, drawn blood? If the blood had come from that cowled white figure.
The bedroom was cold and Peter could see his breath as he forced the small window open. He'd have to leave it open because the glass was frosted up and he'd never see outside otherwise.
The starlight seemed brighter than the previous night, a glittering landscape of frozen whiteness only broken up by patches of shadow. He loaded the gun, rested it on the chest beneath the window and began his vigil. It was going to be a long cold night.
The vixen screeched again and made him jump. Damn it, couldn't her mate find her without her making a row like that? Peter was all keyed up and wished he had some cigarettes. But he didn't, so he'd have to make the best of it.
Funny, he'd anticipated the deer showing themselves on the hill below the forest only a few seconds before his searching eyes picked out the first of the moving black dots. A kind of sixth sense and it was functioning well tonight. Christ, there were a lot of deer up there, whole lines of them merging into bunches, on the move the whole time. They were restless, in a hurry, as though they were going somewhere in particular and didn't have a minute to lose. Probably they were starving, getting desperate for food of any kind. In which case, why didn't they move down to the valleys, where the snow wouldn't be so deep and with luck they'd find some grass they could scratch down to? Canny creatures like deer ought to realise thator perhaps the blizzard had put them in a blue funk. Or something had!
The herd came and went, a vast movement that crossed the top slope and then doubled back towards the wood until the shadows cast by the trees swallowed them up. Peter tried to work out their exact position; they had gone into the forest just about where Don Peter's body lay, his head crushed in, his finger still pointing accusingly. Maybe the vixen was there, too, feeding on . . . He tried to push the thought from his mind. He was feeling sick again.
He remembered the news-flash again, then reminded himself that he had a gun. They were the ones who had to do the worrying; they were in for a nasty shock.
Everywhere so still, so silent. That was what got on his nerves. Why didn't that bloody vixen scream again or an owl hoot? He was listening till he heard sounds that weren't there.
He tried to work out some kind of plan for the following day. The weather held the key to everything, his whole plight. If it did not begin to thaw then he could be here for daysnights! Oh God, he'd crack eventually and go mad in this silence that was pregnant with lurking evil.
He found himself staring at the whiteness outside through slitted eyes. His lids seemed to be weighted down, fighting to close. Jesus, he had to keep awake at all costs. It wasn't easy. The glare of the snow was like a powerful sedative, urging him to lie down, to forget everything. There's nothing out there, it's all in the mind, he told himself. No, it bloody well isn't; they are out there waiting for me to fall asleep so that they can close in. Maybe they even know I've got a gun and all they have to do is to wait.