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 that—or 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 days—nights! 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.
It was full daylight. Peter awoke with a start, his brain computer reminding him instantly that something was wrong. But it took several seconds to process the necessary data which brought everything back to him. Oh Jesus Christ, he'd fallen asleep! The very thing he'd fought against, but in the end fatigue had beaten him. His eyes had closed and he'd slumped across the wooden chest and slept. The old hammer gun was beneath him, fully cocked. Miraculously he hadn't caught the triggers and discharged both barrels.
His thumb shook as he lowered the hammers gently. Outside, the winter sun was high in the sky; the morning was well advanced. He had slept late but they hadn't come after all. At least he didn't think they had. Maybe it was all in the mind.
Cautiously, still carrying the gun, he went downstairs and checked every room. Doors and windows were still fastened. Nobody had tried to force their way in.
Peter munched some dry crackers out of a tin on the shelf and tried to work out a plan of action. The clock on the mantelshelf showed that it was eleven-fifteen. Immediately he pushed any idea of making a break for it out of his mind. The weak sunlight wouldn't melt the snow. It could go on like this for days, maybe weeks. There wasn't a thing he could do about.
He groaned and fought off despair. One way or another he was trapped. They knew that; they could take their time coming for him. It was going to be a twenty-four-hour vigil.
He unlocked the door and went outside. There was a steady drip of water from the sagging guttering at the front of the cottage, but the rear was in the shade and a line of icicles showed no signs of melting.
The glare of the sun on the snow hurt his eyes; he hadn't fully shaken off his headache. There wasn't any point in making the treacherous ascent into the frozen wilderness which even the creatures of the wild seemed to have deserted. No point at all. Slowly he went back indoors and locked the door behind him. It was truly a siege in every sense; the enemy hadn't shown themselves but they were up there all right. He could sense them. The feeling of being watched made him want to draw the curtains and shut out the sunlight, and hide himself away.
Peter switched on the transistor. The static didn't seem so bad this time. Pop music—what else! One DJ's voice was much the same as another, aimless banter and a host of unfunny jokes. 'It's one o'clock and over to the news desk for the latest world-wide news . . . '