Peter felt his pulses begin to race. Maybe Tim Ruskin had some insidious motive; to remove the dead rabbit, destroy the evidence? Or perpetrate further atrocities?
Peter moved quickly, angry now, wanting to confront his neighbour at the earliest opportunity. There were a lot of questions the other had to answer, like not phoning back last night to enquire whether or not Gavin had turned up safely. And all this bullshit he'd fed the boy about druid ghosts and blood sacrifices.
The circle couldn't be far away, Peter knew, but he'd lost all sense of direction in the fog. The raven was croaking angrily now, the way it had when he had disturbed it from its feed on feline carrion. Maybe its feast of rabbit flesh had been interrupted too. By Ruskin. The bastard wasn't far away.
Then Peter saw the trees, grotesque caricatures in the gloom like a child's impression of something beyond adult comprehension. Dead yet alive, seeing him. Reaching out for him. Malevolent.
Something moved, making Peter's heart thump madly. A shape that became human, walking on dead ash, kicking up clouds of it as it moved, the sole survivor after the apocalypse when the earth had burned and cooled to a dead world.
'What the hell d'you think you're doing, Ruskin?' Peter shouted, his words seeming to be blanketed and robbed of their venom by the fog. 'Come to take that rabbit away, have you?'
The man turned slowly, his aquiline face a mask of predatory anger. Showing no surprise, the deep-set eyes hooded and fixed steadily on Peter. In the grey light the lone hair and flowing beard seemed pure white, an aged reincarnation of ancient evil rising up out of the ashes to reclaim its domain of past centuries. A druid priest returned from the dead.
'I happen to be looking for some stray ewes.' A cultured, dominant voice that brooked no interference. 'A task which I am perfectly entitled to carry out.'
'You're trespassing. Apart from that it's sheer bloody bad manners to go tramping about on somebody else's land without so much as a by-your-leave. You know where I live, you could have called at the house first.'
'I saw no reason to disturb you about something you probably wouldn't understand.' Ruskin's eyes narrowed. 'Up here we have an unwritten law that if your stock go missing you go and look for them. Nobody is going to change a way of life that has gone on for centuries. Certainly not an outsider!'
But Peter wasn't listening. His eyes were seeking out the big centre stone, which Janie maintained had been used as a sacrificial altar by the ancient druids, anticipating his revulsion, preparing himself for the sight of that slaughtered rabbit again, mutilated still further by the raven's pre-dations. But the dead animal was no longer there; even the lengths of string were gone. Just patches of dried blood remained, which the elements would erase slowly, nature's method of destroying the evidence.
The rabbit had disappeared just as the cat had done. Only to be returned later? It might be foxes, of course. This time the victim had been within vulpine reach. Only Peter knew the culprit wasn't a fox. His gaze returned to Ruskin, instinctively searching his waterproof clothing for some tell-tale bulge that might reveal a small rabbit carcase stuffed hastily into a pocket. But there was none. Not even a bloodstain or a loose tuft of grey fur adhering to the damp material.
'I rang you last night.' Peter's voice vibrated with his rising anger, his frustration at finding no evidence of the farmer's involvement in the recent happenings.
'Did you? Why?' Abruptly he half-turned away, with an I've-got-things-to-do shrug of his broad shoulders.
'My son was missing.'
'I wouldn't know anything about that. I dropped him off at your place, as a favour for Malcolm Hughes.'
'We found him here:, his pet rabbit had been tied to that stone and mutilated. Just like our cat was the other day.'
'Strange things happen in these hills.' Ruskin's expression was impassive. 'We locals have learned to accept them, not to ask questions.'
'Well I always ask questions.' Peter took a step forward, his hands clenched. 'And another thing, Mr Ruskin—1 take great exception 'to all that rubbish about druids and spooks and the like which you tried to frighten my son with.'
Tin only telling your boy what every other child in the village knows.' Ruskin's tone maintained its unemotional level; Christ, didn't this guy ever get angry? So bloody sure of himself, dominant, talking down to you. 'The other kids aren't scared, they just keep well away from Hodre, and that way they know they'll be all right.'
'Well I don't believe that crap and I'm not keeping away. You won't drive me from Hodre, Ruskin!'
'Me?'
'You or anybody else. I'm staying put, and if there's any more funny business somebody might get hurt!'
'Is that some kind of a threat, Mr Fogg?' Twin red spots appeared on Tim Ruskin's cheeks and began to blotch and spread. His lower lip appeared to tremble slightly but it was difficult to be sure because his beard screened most of it.
'Depends how you take it. I'm looking for anybody on this place without permission from now onwards.'
'I've still got to find my ewes. I can't have 'em lost up here at this time of the year. As you'll find out, blizzards can come without any warning and before you know it your house is buried up to the chimneys.'
'OK, go and look for your sheep.' And you won't scare me with snow talk, either. 'But next time I'd appreciate a call before you come walking over Hodre ground.'
Tim Ruskin turned away without another word and set off uphill away from the circle, his heavy working boots powdering ash in his wake. Peter watched him until he was lost in the fog. He had an uncomfortable feeling that this was an encounter which he had lost. No way would Ruskin come and ask permission to enter Hodre's meagre acreage. Day or night he would come, a feudal baron who was not to be denied access to that which he already considered to be his.
Peter managed to settle to an hour or two of work later that afternoon, forcing himself to hammer the words out of the typewriter. He consoled himself that this was only the first draft; an awful lot might be changed in the second.
It was almost dusk when he happened to glance out of the window. The shadowy panoramic landscape was silhouetted clearly against the skyline. The fog had lifted, the low cloud formations moved on elsewhere.
Something on the horizon attracted his attention, dots that moved, stopped, moved on again. He squinted as he tried to identify them. There were dozens of them, whatever they were; too big for sheep, too small for cattle. And suddenly he knew, and the realisation made him catch his breath. Deer; a herd two or three times the size of the one that had wandered on to Hodre previously!
The big buck leader was recognisable by his aloofness from the rest of the animals, and an alertness that was visible even at a distance of almost a mile. They were edgy; that was why they kept on the move. Probably they had lain up in the big forest all day and now with the approach of nightfall they had come out to feed, regal beasts which from time immemorial had played the role of the hunted.
Then the dusk deepened and Peter could see them no more, but he knew they were out there, fighting to survive. Why did they come to Hodre with the approach of winter when the valleys offered warmth and shelter? Perhaps there was a greater degree of safety in these wild hills and mountains, places to hide, refuge from the lowland hunters. He had read an article in one of the daily newspapers some months ago about how widespread deer-poaching had become in some parts of Britain. No longer was the poacher the romantic village Robin Hood who set forth on moonlit nights content to bag a joint of venison for the larder. Romanticism had escalated into big business. Gangs armed with shotguns and crossbows hunted in the lights of vehicles, heedless of the cruelty involved. Wounded deer escaped, limping away into thick cover to die a terrible lingering death. Ruthless men had turned a peaceful countryside into a violent land. Gangs amalgamated for bigger kills and bigger profits. Men who poached by night and slept by day, desperate thugs who would kill rather than be caught, planted their own decoys to fool police and forestry rangers. And at the end of the day they became rich and gave no thought to the needless suffering they had caused by their greed.
The deer were welcome on Hodre, Peter reflected. At least they weren't subjected to that', only cats and rabbits apparently.
He found work somewhat easier in the evening. It compensated for Janie's and Gavin's absence and dispelled loneliness. In a way Janie had done him a favour, because he would finish his book that much quicker, and maybe he could even be out of here by late spring.
He worked on late and didn't break off until shortly before midnight. He could have gone on longer, but past experience had taught him that long concentrated spells of writing were no advantage because tiredness slowed him down the following day. Like a cross-country runner, one had to maintain an even pace.
He made himself a mug of coffee and sat drinking it by the Rayburn in the kitchen. It was the worst time of the day for him, the time when he got round to thinking about things, when the protective shield of work was lowered. He glanced at the clock: eleven-fifty. He had a sudden pang of uneasiness: Janie should have phoned. Or maybe she was still being stubborn and putting the onus of communication on him. It was late; probably her parents had already been in bed for an hour. She might even have turned in herself.
He pursed his lips and stared into the muddy-coloured liquid that was supposed to be instant coffee, recommended for calming the nerves. That was a load of bull, the way he felt right now. To phone or not to phone, that was the question.
Peter stood up. He knew he'd have to make the call. His conscience was beginning to trouble him. This was how marriages broke up: a temporary separation to begin with until you got used to being without each other, then you didn't really want to go to the trouble of getting back together. He didn't really have a good reason for staying. He didn't need Hodre to write a book; a thousand other places would do. Neither did he have to involve himself in local feuds, prejudices and cock-and-bull stories that wouldn't even make good background for a novel because they were so common. Almost every old house, tract of wood, moor and heath had its own resident spook, according to the locals of those places.
He went into the hall and started to dial. He was only on the third digit when he got the feeling that something was wrong. The instrument seemed lifeless, as though the dialling mechanism was performing the motions but nothing else; no clicking into place, no sound of wires humming and picking up the message.
Peter's uneasiness increased. He finished dialling and listened. Silence. He tried again with fading hopes. Nothing.
Oh, Jesus Christ the fucking thing was dead! He slammed the receiver back, wanting to pummel it with his fists, smash it. But he didn't, because the prickling sensation was creeping back up his spine and into the nape of his neck, goose-pimpling his skin.
He glanced at the door and made certain the bolt was shot home. He'd check the downstairs windows too before he went upstairs. Just to be sure.
Outside he could hear the wind, a soft soughing noise that increased in volume even as he listened, buffeted the door as though it was trying to get in. Maybe it had got up earlier and he hadn't noticed it. It was a lot colder too, icy draughts seeming to come from a score of different directions. Suddenly autumn had become winter.
He had a sudden feeling that he wanted to dash outside, hurl himself behind the wheel of the Saab and drive like hell to put as many miles as possible between Hodre and himself.
Your phone's dead. The car might not start! Don't go outside, because you don't know what's lurking out there.
It was all in the mind. He was tired, over-worked. He knew there was nothing there that could possibly hurt him,
All the same he checked the doors and windows and went upstairs without even finishing his coffee. His fears would run riot if he didn't check them: his escalating terror; claustrophobia because he was trapped; agoraphobia because he wouldn't dare go out anyway. In the end he would go mad.
Peter flung himself down on the bed and tried to tell himself once again that it was all in the mind. But true or false, he was trapped here. Alone.