Julia came downstairs, towelling her hair briskly. Her dressing gown was wrapped tightly and cinched at her waist, accentuating her slimness, though the huge black and white slippers with the Snoopy faces on them just looked ridiculous. They'd been one of the birthday gifts from Jack who had obviously taken David with him when he'd bought them.
She pushed open the living room door, expecting the usual barrage of noise from the television and was pleasantly surprised to find it was turned off. David was nowhere to be seen. He'd even put away his winter jacket which had been slung over the back of a chair. She still had the after-bath glow, an almost lethargic sense of cleanliness and well being as she moved into the kitchen. Normally at this time of night, the surface next to the cooker would be a mess of crumbs and jam-splatters from his enthusiastic attempts at making his own supper, but the place was clean. She poured some milk into a cup and put it into the micro, pressed the setting for two minutes, and fished the jar of cocoa down from an overhead shelf. Her hair, still slightly damp, clung to her temples in a dark mop of ringlets. Julia absently draped the towel over the radiator.
From the kitchen doorway, she called upstairs.
There was no reply. Julia walked down the narrow hallway and turned up the flight, her ludicrous slippers scuffing on the edges of the treads. Jack had bought David a little personal stereo and a handful of story-teller tapes which the seven-year-old favoured instead of books, though she knew this would probably change. He was probably up in his room with the earphones on and the sound up to full volume. She got to the top of the stairs, turned past the bathroom which still smelt of bath oil and warm water, pushed open David's bedroom door and stopped dead.
The room was empty.
Julia's heart did a slow and easy flip, like a sleeper turning over in bed.
The coverlet on the bed was still stretched up over the pillows and a scattering of toys, most of them grotesque robotic things depicting characters from the last science fiction romp he'd seen with Jack at the cinema, lay in a cluttered heap on the floor. The little stereo was on the shelf over the bed, neat headphones dangling down like a futuristic wishbone.
She crossed quickly to the closet and pulled the door open. David's jacket was not there.
Her heart flopped again, squeezing inside her chest as if gripped by a cold hand. Julia backed away, taking two slow steps, then spun quickly and almost ran out of the room. She pushed her way into her own bedroom and swept her eyes round. He wasn't there. She got to the top of the steps and whirled herself round on the newel post, descending so quickly one of her slippers came off and tumbled behind her. She jerked open the cupboard door under the stairs, flicking on the light with her free hand. A jumble of brushes and mops stood silently.
For the first time since she'd stood at the bottom of the stairs, Julia called out again. Her voice bounced back towards her from the tall wall at the top of the stairs. There was no reply.
Panic lurched drunkenly and the bathtime legacy of lethargy simply disappeared.
"David!" she yelled again. His name faded away. For a second, she thought he might be hiding, behind the settee, under the table. No. He was gone.
Julia strode to the window and yanked the curtain aside. In the glow of the street lamp outside, she could see the ice particles swirl in the rising breeze. She checked under the table again where she'd last seen his shoes. They were gone too.
She sat down heavily, one hand going automatically to her forehead where a tension headache was already beginning to pulse above her left eye.
He must have followed Jack.
As soon as that thought came, indignation piled itself on top of the panic.
How dare he, she hissed aloud between gritted teeth, motherly anger bubbling up inside. She'd told him a million times, since he was old enough to understand, that he must never ever go out of the house without first letting her know. Now he'd slipped on his shoes and his heavy jacket and followed Jack out into the night. She didn't know why, but she'd find out as soon as her brother brought the boy back, and then she'd tan his hide good and proper. Even as she thought that, the idea of the small boy out in the dark on a winter's night in Levenford made her heart thump heavily again and her instant motherly wrath winked out.
David was out there in the dark. He was out there alone, a seven-year-old boy on his own. While whatever was stalking and hunting children in Levenford might be out there with him.
Julia's stomach clenched so tightly she thought she was going to be sick. She gulped back against the gagging sensation and reached the phone in three strides, snatching up the receiver even as she began to stab at the buttons.
The earpiece clicked as the numbers registered, then burbled softly as Julia stood, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
"Come on, Jack," she bawled into the thing. "Please pick it up."
It rang softly, double chirrups overlain by static. Her thoughts were racing ahead. Had he gone to Jack's house? Of course he must have. She tried to recall whether her brother had the car with him, whether she'd heard the engine start up, or the door slam, but nothing came.
Meanwhile the earpiece was purring insistently in her ear. If he'd been at home, he'd have picked it up by now.
Julia's heart did another lurch as the next thought hit her like the night mail-train. If Jack wasn't at home, then where was David?
She dropped the receiver with a clatter and sat down heavily on the arm of the chair. All the strength just drained out of her in that one moment. Her mind was a whirl as the panic gripped at her. She put two hands up to her temples, pressing hard, trying to make the unwelcome thoughts stop, striving to clear her mind and think. Finally all the wheeling pictures in her mind slowed down, ground to a halt and she concentrated. It took only a second to decide what to do. She grabbed the phone again, dialled the station number. Bobby Thomson recognised her voice as soon as she spoke and started to say something.
"No time Bobby," she snapped at him. "I have to speak to Jack right away."
"Sorry Julia, he's not in yet."
"I thought he was coming straight to the station," she said. A wild whoop of hope surged inside. Maybe Jack was on his way back to the house with David shivering and shamefaced in the back seat. Jack would have torn him up for being out of the house alone. He was more paranoid about the killer, the one they were calling the Shrike than anybody. Even as the hope flared it died. He lived only two minutes away by car. He wouldn't have stopped to read the boy the riot act. He'd have brought him straight back, and then kicked his backside good and proper.
"I can give you John McColl," Bobby offered.
"Sure, but when Jack comes in, tell him to call me right away."
The phone clicked. A gruff voice spoke into her ear.
"Operations."
"John? Julia."
"Who?"
"Jack's sister."
"Oh, hello. Haven't seen you in a while."
"Sorry John. I don't have any time. Any idea where Jack is?"
"No. He said he'd be in later, but I don't know how late. He's out with the search teams at the moment, I imagine."
"Well. I have to speak to him right away. Can you contact him and get him to call me?"
"Sure," John promised. "I'll give him a shout on the radio. He'll get back in a couple of minutes."
Julia thanked him and hung up. She dropped the phone and went striding in her now-bare feet through the hallway and snatched her coat out from the cupboard next to the kitchen. Her old gardening shoes were lying on their edges and she shucked them on, ignoring the sandy grit rasping against her soles. She belted the coat tightly over her dressing gown and opened the front door, about to step out when she stopped.
The smirr of ice-dust, too fine to be called snow, had frosted the front step and dusted the flagstones leading down to the gate at the bottom of the garden. The cleated imprints of Jack's shoes were clearly delineated on the flat surface, a single trail of wide exclamation marks, but they were the only footprints there. David hadn't gone this way. Immediately she realised what had happened and dashed for the back door. As soon as it swung open, and the outside light came on, the evidence leapt at her. David's prints, the zig-zag soles puckering up the spindrift angled down the steps and across the drying green towards the rockery in the far corner.
Julia's stomach clenched again. He'd taken the short cut through the trees. Without stopping, she ran across the short grass, not even hearing the crackle of the frosted grass underfoot, leapt up on the rockery and clambered over the fence. She knew the routes the children took, though it was less easy for her to squeeze through the gap in the privet hedge. As she pushed her way through the cold foliage, she cursed herself for a fool. She should have told somebody, Bobby Thomson or John McColl, that David had gone round to Jack's place. She should have got one of the patrol cars up here to look for him. She'd left the house with only a coat, no flashlight, nothing of any use in the trees. She hadn't even told either of the policeman that she needed Jack to call back immediately, and even if he did, there would be no reply. Julia debated going back to the house and calling the station again, but then mother instinct took over. Her son was out in the belt of trees. Maybe he'd gone beyond them and reached Jack's place. She wanted to find him now before he took another step.
She made it through the hedge and took the few steps it needed to reach the belt of trees. As soon as the branches overhead loomed dark, cutting out the faint glimmer of the stars, she started calling her son's name.
Up above, the wind plucked at the twigs and pine needles and the few dry leaves left clinging to the fine branchlets of the beech trees, sending their whispery paper rustle down to her and the darkness closed in.
There was no reply. Julia stumbled on, her heart now thudding hard enough to make breathing difficult.
"David," she shouted at the top of her voice. Behind her, just out of vision beyond the edge of the trees, a light came on in a house, sending a faint glow of illumination and sharpening the shadows. Far off to the right, up Cargill Farm Road, a dog barked throatily. Julia ploughed on, ignoring the brambles which snatched and tugged at her bare legs, beating her way between the trees. A few yards further in, the faint glow from the house faded to nothing and she was walking in darkness, panic fluttering inside her, clogging her throat, rasping her breath. She reached the small clearing in the middle of the barwood, but now the darkness was so intense that she could see nothing. She blundered on, hands held up in front of her face, towards the old root-fan of the fallen tree.
Behind her, the wind moved the joining branches and they screamed loudly in frictive protest. The noise was so sudden and unexpected, so eerily human that Julia jerked around, still walking. She did not see the deep pit left by the ripping roots of the fallen tree and she simply crashed over the edge in a dizzying tumble. She landed with such force all the breath was punched out of her lungs. Something sharp speared her on the hip and an awful pain ripped across her pelvis. She bounced, rolling forward and in the dark, something hit against her forehead with a sickening crack. The dark broke up into a spangle of flashing blue lights. David's face wavered among them and she tried to call out to him, but then he faded away and the lights went out and Julia felt herself fall slowly into oblivion.
On the other side of the river, Jack was about to start the engine again when the radio coughed. He thumbed it on, gave his call sign and John McColl's voice tried to break through the heavy static. Jack heard the words sister and call, but little else. He asked John to repeat it. There was a flare of interference then the sergeant came back, a little more strongly.
"Julia wants you to give her a bell. Sounded important."
"Can't do it right now," Jack said. "I'm heading over the bridge onto River Street. I've got an idea, so tell Ralph to wait for my call. Give Julia a ring and see what she wants."
Jack didn't know if using Lorna would work, but he had an odd feeling of anticipation, and exhilaration, as if something was getting ready to happen. Overhead, up in the murk, the clouds were gathering, whipped in on the thundery low pressure that was playing havoc with the radio, and despite the deep chill, there was a tension in the air.
"What's your intended route?" John asked.
"No details as yet. I'll come back first chance." He clicked the radio and the static died. The engine coughed then ran smooth. He pulled out and drove over the bridge. They turned right along River Street, as Jack had said. Lorna sat silent, fingers curved and pressed against her temples. Her eyes were closed. Every now and again, Jack would glance across at her, and when they passed under the overhead street lights, her face, in the brief flash was tight with concentration.
They travelled a hundred yards or so when Lorna's head snapped upwards. Jack eased the brake down and stopped.
"Something," she said. "I felt something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Just a bad feeling. We're close, but it doesn't feel right."
She peered out through the windscreen, shading her eye against the lamplight, eyes screwed up, then she shook her head. Jack prepared to pull out again when she turned and looked over her shoulder. He looked towards her and saw her eyes widen.
"There," she said, pointing out of his window. He turned and followed the direction of her finger.
Cairn House loomed taller than the rest of the buildings, a great, gray and worn facade, with the maw of Boat Pend a dark tunnel running through its centre at ground level. No lights shone from the tall and narrow windows.
"In there?" Jack asked, feeling the anticipation wind up inside.
"No," she stated flatly. "Just a bad feeling. That's where it came in. Something terrible happened in that house. Many terrible things, from long ago."
"That's where Marta Herkik died. Cairn House."
"She should have left it alone," Lorna said in a surprisingly hard voice. "And they should knock that place down. It's like a sponge. All the badness is soaked up in there. That's why it was able to come in."
"From where?"
"From somewhere worse. That place is an abomination. It's an evil house. I can feel the badness, like leprosy. Like a cancer. They should burn it to the ground."
"Maybe another time. Should I go in and look?"
Lorna started back. "Don't go in there," she said, voice sharp. "Not ever."
"I mean, should I call in the reserves and search the place?"
She shook her head. "It's not in there. I would know."
"Sure?"
She nodded slowly and sat back out of the light. Her eyes were like pits in the shadow.
He pulled out on the quiet street and started along. Just past the bakery where young Graham Friel had been dragged to the roof by the thing that whispered inside his head, a patrol car passed by, driving slowly. The driver flicked his lights in recognition and moved on past. There were no pedestrians.
They continued to the cross and turned left up Kirk Street, heading past the masonic temple and on towards the town hall. At the turn, they passed the church steeple where John McColl had gazed up at the flapping body of Lisa Corbett, and Lorna shuddered as a bleak picture flashed into her head and faded. Another shiver rippled through her as they slowly moved past the masonic hall, but this time there was no image, just a sense of foulness and rot. She turned her head away, feeling sick. Jack drove on.
-----
Pain was hammering into the centre of Julia's forehead. It seemed to drive through her brain and ricochet from the back of her skull. She twisted, not knowing where she was, and the movement caused her to roll further into the hole. Something sharp twisted against her pelvis and a glassy agony sang in her hip.
The movement cranked up the pain in her head and again little orbiting lights flickered and danced in her vision, though it was so dark she couldn't tell if her eyes were open. For a long moment, she was completely confused. Thick nausea stirred at the back of her head, just above her neck. She turned and the pain in her hip corkscrewed viciously, launching a squeal from her open mouth. Dopily she wondered what had happened, why she was lying wherever she was and why the pain was so bad. She raised herself up on both hands, feeling her palms press against jagged splinters of wood. The pain flared again in her hip, so fierce that a while light seemed to flash inside her head, then something pulled free with a revolting wrench that came from right inside her.
David.
His face danced across the forefront of her mind and for a second the pain vanished.
Something wrong. Something wrong!
Something about David. She clawed for it, fought against the dizziness and nausea and the cloud of oblivion that was trying to billow over her.
Gone.
And it all came back in a lightning flash. She'd followed him through the trees because...because he'd gone.
She remembered stumbling through the undergrowth, hands up in case she bumped into a sharp branch, and then she'd fallen.
How long ago? She tried to think, tried to force back the terrible hurt in her side that came sweeping back in a red rip tide. Seconds? Minutes? Hours?
Julia cried out aloud, against the pain and against the sudden and terrible dread.
He could have been gone for hours. The thought got her onto her feet. The darkness spun around her, shapes and shadows fluttered in front of her eyes and she took a step forward. Wet warmth drained down her thigh as she clambered up the ridge of frozen earth, panting for breath. She made it over the lip and stumbled forward. Something hard hit against her side and the pain there blossomed like a poisonous orchid. She bit against it, breath hissing between her teeth, too scared to stall, too desperate to faint. She did not know how long it took to reach the edge of the barwood, fighting the exhaustion and pain and sick apprehension. At the privet hedge, she stopped, close to collapse, panting like an exhausted animal. The wet had now soaked into her shoe, making a soft squelching sound with every step. She dragged herself through, made it to the back door of the nearest house, crawled up the stairs and when she banged on the door, she didn't even realise she was screaming at the top of her voice.
Old Miss Loch, who made cakes for the local youngsters, but went into an apoplectic rage if she caught them using her herb garden as a short-cut, opened the door just as the lights were beginning to come on above the doors of the houses nearby.
"Whatever's the matter?" she asked tremulously, easing the door a fraction, peering over the safety chain.
"Help me," Julia blurted. "Oh, please. I have to get to a phone."
The old woman, hair done up in bright pink rollers, squinted down at the woman on the stone steps. She seemed about to close the door again, then she recognised Julia. She undid the chain and came out, reaching to help her up.
"What's happened? Are you hurt?"
Julia lurched against her and smeared the old woman's nightdress with a vivid splash of blood. Miss Loch jerked back, aghast.
"Oh my!" she gasped, planting a hand on her flat chest.
"Phone," Julia mumbled, pushing past through the kitchen. She got to the hall, where the telephone sat on a neat doily on a small occasional table and fell to her knees. Despite the pain, she called Jack's office. John McColl picked it up on third ring.