'What is it?' Janie clutched at her husband's arm, noting subconsciously that he was trembling too.
'Sounds like a chainsaw,' he muttered. 'Bound to be a lot of forestry work going on in a place like this.'
Louder, painful to the ears, vaguely reminiscent of noises that were all part of urban life, a faint smell of diesel on the air.
'Look!' Janie pointed back down to the small valley in which Hodre nestled. 'It's—it's—'
'Motorbikes!' There was contempt in Peter's tone; he saw the machines, two of them traversing the downhill slope, bumping over the rough ground, the riders somehow managing to stay in the saddles. 'Damn it, we had enough of this nonsense at Perrycroft, every bleeding night kids roaring round and round the block creating hell specially to annoy other folks.'
'There's Gavin!' Janie's shriek was audible even above the din of the bikes.
Sure enough even at that distance there was no mistaking Gavin's slight form, his faded light blue denims showing up against the autumn grassland, his red hair streaming as he ran; ran because the motorcycles were gaining on him; mechanical lurchers intent on running down their prey.
'Oh God!' Janie was already moving forward, still holding on to Peter, dragging him with her. 'They'll run him down, that's what they're trying to do!'
As they began the steep and slippery descent, heedless of their own safety, the angry roar of the bikes below drowned their futile shouts. The machines seemed to be honing in on the fleeing boy, veering at the last second just when it seemed that they must collide with him. Circling, revving up, driving him in the opposite direction like a collie in pursuit of a stubborn ewe.
'They're mad,' Janie screamed in Peter's ear, 'don't they realise the danger?'
Of course they do, he hadn't the breath to reply, they're doing it deliberately, it's yobbish bullying. The way those Wilson boys have been bullying him at school.
Nearer now, the Foggs covering the ground at an amazing speed, the frightening scene only a mere thirty yards away portrayed in every brutal detail. The faces of the black-coated bikers sheer ugliness that was screwed up into masks of hate, slanted eyes that gave them an oriental appearance, both with thin lips that bespoke cruelty. Brothers, they might even be twins. They turned, revved up again, grinned at the sight of their fleeing prey, the way the boy was stumbling, panting for breath. Then they shot forward again. Janie could tell that Gavin was screaming, trying to cover his deathly white face with his arms, surrendering because there was nowhere else to run. She couldn't look any more; this time her baby couldn't escape those wheels which bore down on him.
Yet somehow the riders altered course at the very last second. Their victim had fallen to the ground, a wheel missing his outstretched legs by inches, pumping stinking black fumes into his face.
'Cut it out, you bastards!' Peter stood astride the boy, paternal protection in his stance, anger on his face, fists clenched.
The two youths came round in yet another circle and leered when they saw him; one man on foot could not halt the might of their machines. Jesus, they'd teach him a lesson!
Peter saw them coming at him. He didn't flinch, knowing they would alter course again. Afraid for Janie because she was too close, he gave her a quick glance. Then they came at him, roaring fury bearing down on him. A blur of sheer malevolence.
He saw the wheels turning to miss him, and braced himself. Bastards, he'd show 'em a thing or two. The one on the right, because Peter was right-handed and it was easier. A lightning lunge; he felt the impact, a jarring blow that shuddered right up into his shoulder. He cursed, cried out with pain and stumbled back, just missing the machine behind him.
So fast it was a blur, rider and bike parted company. The machine careered on until it overbalanced; the youth crashed to the ground.
Peter staggered to his feet and went towards the fallen rider. The youth was shaken, just winded, and scrambled up; a comparatively soft landing but it had dulled his reflexes.
'You verminous little swine!' Peter had him by the collar of the fake-leather jacket, stared into that twisted hate-filled face. 'You could've killed my boy. You want birching!'
Slit-eyes returned his glare; the thin lips seemed to buckle and purse. A blob of spittle, accurate with uncouth practice, caught Peter full in the face. It took perhaps a couple of seconds for mind and body to unite and bring the rising anger, to a peak. Then it burst, Peter's free hand went back, then came down with every ounce of force that he could muster in a back-handed blow. Even the high-pitched drone of the two motorbikes could not drown the sharp report of the impact. The mean Up seemed to split and turn crimson and the head jerked back. Peter .released his hold and the youth stumbled backwards, lost his balance and fell heavily.
Silence, so sudden that it was frightening. Peter turned and saw Janie clutching Gavin to her. The fallen machine had cut out, its wheels still spinning with a soft, almost gentle, swishing sound. The second youth was no more than three or four yards away, astride his silent bike, an expression of astonishment on his pallid features.
'What the hell d'you think you're doing riding on private land?' Peter broke the silence, watching the fallen biker getting to his feet, a thick trickle of blood running down his chin and dripping on to the torn jacket. 'That's just a taste of what you'll get next time. Take my advice and keep away from Hodre. You're lucky, I should be calling the police.'
They did not answer, just spat in unison; a crimson dottle landed on a frond of dying fern. Their impassive gazes fixed on Peter and did not waver. He felt himself flinching; God, they were like zombies. If only they'd speak, curse, threaten. Instead, the fallen bike was uprighted and its rider swung himself easily into the saddle, oblivious of the pouring blood, the crimson rivulet now thickened by twin streams from the nostrils.
The noise began again, reverberating, jarring the brain. Peter watched them go, typical examples of motorbike hooligans. Hodre or Perrycroft—it was just the same.
'Where on earth have you been?' Janie was doing her best to scold Gavin but the impact of her remonstration was tempered by relief. She was trying hard not to cry.
'I went to look for Snowy.' Gavin was trembling. 'Something's happened to him, I know it has. He's somewhere in thereV A shaking forefinger pointed to the forest. Even the morning sunlight could not dispel its aura of foreboding, its silent warning.
'Well, that's settled them.' Peter clutched at his shoulder and winced. 'I don't reckon they'll be back here for a long time to come.'
'Dad!' Gavin's expression was one of terror, a fear that seemed to be mounting now that the bikers had left. 'Dad, you shouldn't've done that. Now I'll really be in big trouble!' 'Whatever are you talking about? I just gave 'em a bit of their own medicine. They won't come back, take it from me.' 'Dad, you don't know who they are.' Almost a scream. 'No, and I don't bloody well care.' 'But / do, Dad. The Wilsons really will beat me up on Monday now because those were their two big brothers, Dai and Ralph. They'll get me for sure now!'
Peter stared. Mother and son were hugging each other close, sharing a mutual fear, blaming him for what he'd done. 'Don't be ridiculous,' He licked his dry lips and felt an icy trickle run up his spine and goosepimple the back of his neck. Tm not going to be intimidated by a bunch of thugs, even if they have terrorised the village ever since they were able to walk. I'll have a word with the headmaster first thing on Monday morning, and if I don't get any satisfaction there I'll go to the police. If the Wilsons have got any sense they'll try and forget that this morning ever happened.'
Janie closed her eyes, feeling giddy for a second. Somewhere far away she heard a receding drone that might have been bees, had it not been too late in the year. Motorbikes, away in the big forest somewhere. The Wilsons going back home, maybe already planning their revenge.
She opened her eyes again and saw the multitude of dark firs that stretched beyond the skyline. Nature's own empire of darkness harbouring its evil minions. She felt Gavin's hand squeezing her own tightly. 'We'd better get home,' she said.
She wanted to run, to flee from here. Not just the Wilson boys, they were only a small part of whatever it was she felt in the atmosphere. Nothing logical, just a knowledge that there was something up there. Watching you. Hating you. Something evil!
The village of Woodside had not changed throughout the last hundred years. Its narrow winding main street had been made long before motorised transport and was stubbornly clinging to tradition. Subsidence created potholes and cracked tarmacadam as though it was a subtle manoeuvre to return to its former surface of mud and stones. One shop, so insignificant among the grey stone cottages that it seemed to be trying to hide from strangers, and a church that would be undergoing structural repairs if ever the twenty-year-old restoration fund realised sufficient money. The aged verger still scythed the grass in the churchyard and maintained that modern mowing machines were 'no good and made too much noise for quiet graveyards.'
The Cat, tike everything else in Woodside had rejected progress. Picturesque inside and out it could have commanded trade from afar but Eli Lewis, its publican, was determined that that should not happen. Strangers were discouraged by the permanent layer of dust in the bar and the inhospitability of Eli and his ageing wife. Outsiders were served in silence, with a mute message to 'drink up and be away'.
Janie was aware of the hostile atmosphere the moment she followed Peter into the Cat on Sunday evening, as grey eyes hardened tike chips of slate and focused on Gavin. She half-expected the grumpy greying man behind the bar to snarl 'Oi, no children allowed in the bar' but he didn't. Maybe he was just curious.
'A pint of bitter, a gin and lemonade and an orange juice.' Peter glanced casually around the room. Four old men clad in Sunday suits that had probably belonged to their fathers before them were engrossed in a game of dominoes in the far corner. Two younger men, maybe in their early forties, sat stoically regarding the. newcomers across pint mugs of ale. Farmworkers, probably, still wearing their rough working clothes. Peter decided. Rugged, resenting this sudden intrusion upon their pub routine. Fingers gnarled and thickened. One man had an unruly shock of greying hair that would resist the efforts of the strongest comb; the other was balding round the crown, and had a nose that had once been broken and not set. As primitive as their peasant forefathers.
Eli Lewis took his time, deliberately blowing dust off the small glass before he tipped the contents of a bottle of concentrated orange juice into it. He eyed Janie as though challenging her to comment upon the lack of hygiene.
She glanced away, wishing the two men on the other side of the room wouldn't keep staring. They gave her the same feeling as the woods and fields bordering Hodre. It was unnerving, a mingling of guilt and fear that made her want to flee, that she had no right to be here.
'Cheers.' Peter put their drinks down on the rickety table. 'Here's to the first of many pints at the Cat.'
Peter lowered himself on to a stool. Gavin was playing with a beermat and Janie was meticulously checking on the manicuring of her fingernails. Somebody had to say something soon to break the heavy silence, and the onus was on him.
'Nice little pub you've got here.' His remark was addressed to Eli Lewis, who appeared to have a sudden urge to wipe the dust from his shelves of glasses and tankards. 'I expect you get packed out in the summer months.'
'No.' Eli's voice reminded Peter of rusty hinges being forced back. 'We don't and we're not going to encourage tourists. Woodside is one village that's going to keep its dignity. We don't take to outsiders.'
'Including us?' Peter's question was tinged with a sudden bitterness and anger. If these people wanted to force an issue then he'd take it up.
'Not just you.' The landlord of the Cat continued with his dusting. 'Outsiders generally. That fellow Blackstone who owns Hodre, what right has he buying up our land and then not even living in the place, letting it go to rack and ruin, hiring it out to townles every year?'
'It was up for sale for months before he bought it,' Peter snapped. The locals had every chance to buy it.'
"That's not the point. It shouldn't've been sold outside the village.'
'Well, I wouldna' live there, rent free.' One of the two men sitting in close proximity to the Foggs' table suddenly spoke, in a whining voice. 'Not me. And neither would Don here, 'cause he knows the place as well as I do. Don't you, Don?'
'That I do.' The one called Don was staring intently into his beer. 'Wouldna' go there at night would we, Mick?'