Peter slid back the bolt. It ran easily, as though even this inanimate object was conspiring to hasten his death. He lifted the latch and let the door swing open a few inches.
It was getting unbearably hot. The stone wall adjoining the granary was like the side of a bread oven. He gripped the gun with both hands and pulled the hammers up to full cock. A handful of cartridges was concealed in the pocket of his jeans; this was by no means a surrender.
He tried to formulate a rapid plan of action. Go out there fast and low, zig-zagging towards the low wall by the gate. Make a last stand from there.
A report, as if the 12-bore had gone off, and the stone in the granary began to split. It was an instant inferno. The whole place was tinder dry, the beams half-rotten, and burning debris fell with a crash. Peter felt the vibration beneath his feet and knew he couldn't stay there much longer. The cottage and the granary roof formed a single structure; the whole lot might come down together and bury him in an avalanche of fiery rubble. He could linger no longer.
The door creaked open another foot, urging him to run. He paused briefly, wishing he had gone with Janie and Gavin, thankful that at least they were safe.
Then he hit the porch at a run, feeling the snow beneath his feet, a hard-packed slippery surface that slowed him down and threatened to send him sprawling with each step he took. He found it difficult trying to zig-zag as he anticipated the tearing force of a steel bolt ripping through his body, throwing him back in a heap of mutilated flesh that spouted blood and turned the snow a ghastly crimson.
Peter couldn't understand it. He'd reached the boundary wall and was kneeling in a patch of shadow, trembling and trying not to look around him. But not a single bolt had been fired at him as he ran!
Something was wrong. It took him several seconds to realise what it was: the darkness was gone, pushed back to a mass of shadow that hovered uncertainly as far as the stone circle. It was the orange glow from the blazing building that lit the night sky, of course. Not wholly, though. Shafts of dazzling white light split the night sky, a criss-crossing of anti-aircraft searchlight beams trying to pinpoint enemy bombers, swinging this, way and that, converging, moving on. Ok God, those tampers, as PC Calven called them, they were here, too!
Even as Peter reared up slowly to try and peer over the top of the low crumbling drystone wall his ears picked up the steady drone of engines, an incessant hum that was growing louder by the second. It was aircraft . . . No, the lights, the sound was too low on the ground, they'd crash into the hillside if they were planes.
He viewed the scene above him in total amazement, his fear forgotten. Three or four vehicles traversed the steep slope, going one way then the other, their powerful lights illuminating the whole hillside.
It was impossible! The slope was like a glacier; the ice and snow would not hold a vehicle of any sort. Even a crawler would have difficulty in making it up there in dry weather. But these vehicles traversed it with ease!
Snowmobiles!
Peter caught his breath. He picked one out in the lights, a low snub-nosed thing that moved steadily with a power that defied the elements and the terrain, swinging one way, then the other. The snow machines were moving into a wide circle, now closing in.
Men were runningwhite-robed figures who stumbled and fell, panicking and trying to rid themselves of their obstructing garments, a kind of bizarre round-up in which they were herded by mechanical creatures which anticipated their every move. The fleeing figures had what looked like outsize shoes on their feet.
Everything had come to a standstill. The whole scene was illuminated by the lights of the stationary snowmobiles, and the eerie glow from the shooting flames which were rapidly devouring Hodre. The burning debris crackled, shooting sparks high into the windless sky in a kaleidoscopic firework display. Above the hum of the idling engines Peter heard men shouting. There were a dozen or more figures now; a brief scuffle, and it was over almost before it began.
He gripped his gun and waited.
After what seemed an eternity the cavalcade of snow machines began to move off again in an almost vertical convoy. Coming this way. The slow procession came to a halt in the drifted lane. Two men clambered out of the leading vehicle and began ploughing their way through the deep snow towards him.
He caught his breath and instinctively began lowering the hammers of the shotgun as he recognised one of them in the glare from the blazing cottage. There was no mistaking the angular features of PC Calvert, a sheepskin jacket covering his constable's uniformPeter suddenly experienced the urge to burst out laughing, a sense of utter relief combined with the comical appearance of the Woodside policeman in knee-length Wellington boots that were surely two sizes too large and gave him a kind of Mickey Mouse appearance. 'Glad you're OK, Mr Fogg.' Calvert was sweating. Peter nodded. Tm OK, but we'd better move away from the house. The whole bloody lot's going to cave in any second.'
'Well, we got 'em.' The constable motioned towards the group of men clustered around the waiting vehicles. The ring-leaders anyway.'
'Got who?' Peter winced as he heard the roof behind them starting to slide. 'I haven't a clue what's going on except that somebody seems determined to perforate my body with crossbow bolts. They got Peters and Bostock, by the way. Bostock's in the house, probably cremated by now.'
'We found Peters up there.' Calvert pointed up the hillside. 'Sergeant Lewis and myself came with the forest rangers tonight but I don't think any of us quite expected a haul like this.'
'Suppose you fill me in on everything.' Peter shook his head slowly. 'I'm afraid I'm getting a bit confused.'
I'd've thought it was obvious.' A tall raw-boned man wearing a torn ex-army combat jacket over a polo-necked sweater stepped forward. These guys here are the leaders of what was probably the most dangerous and highly organised gang of deer-poachers ever to operate in Britain.'
'Deer-poachers/' Peter stared wide-eyed at the heap of crossbows and high-powered battery lamps loaded on to one of the snowmobiles glinting evilly in the light cast by the blazing cottage. 'But I thought ..."
'Sure we know what you thought, and so did we up until a couple of nights ago when we got a tip-off.' Calvert laughed, a humourless hollow sound. 'You thought you were the victim of an anti-English campaign by some fanatical yobbos, and so you were to some extent. And you also thought that a couple of our local moochers, Peters and Bostock, wanted you out of the way so they could poach rabbits on Hodre in peace. And you were right! But these deer-poachers were the ones who killed your cat and rabbit and slashed your tyres. They needed to get you out of the way when the big herds moved up to winter on Hodre because that was going to be their big coup, thousands of pounds for a few night's work. They're more desperate than most of the armed gangs who raid banks in the cities, and their overall rewards are just as rich. In an out-of-the-way place like this, working systematically, they could clean up most of the herd. They tried to scare you off first but when that didn't work they were going to make sure you didn't live to tell the tale, just as they weren't taking any chances on Peters and Bostock getting away. For the poachers this blizzard couldn't have been better timed; they could take their time, use snowshoes, and all they needed was a few nights when nobody could get to them. Fortunately the Forestry Commission shipped a few snowmobiles out here when they realised what was going on.'
Peter wasn't listening anymore; his brain was suddenly reeling as he stared at one of the captured poachers, a big fellow with remnants of a torn camouflage sheet still clinging to his frame. The eyes still blazed venom even in defeat, the long silver hair and flowing beard seemed to have turned white. Tonight Tim Ruskin had aged a decade!