'Hold it!' Jon caught his brother's arm. 'You know what our dad says: you don't leave no marks on anybody, else they can get you for it. Hit 'im in the guts, it don't bruise there.'
Gavin doubled up and would have fallen had they not been holding him. Hard short jabs seemed to explode his abdomen, making him gasp for breath. He was not able even to cry out with pain, but seemed to deflate like the old football the children were still kicking about.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. No more than half a dozen below-the-belt punches, and then his attackers released their hold on him and stood back as he slumped to the ground clutching at his stomach—trying to breathe, retching, groaning, writhing like a worm that has been speared by a gardener's fork. Even the tears wouldn't come. A terrible fear that they had injured him permanently, that he'd never walk again, flooded his mind. He looked up and saw their leering faces through a blur, like a reflection in a pool distorted by ripples.
'That's for what your dad did to our Dai,' Jon Wilson spat. 'And it's a warning about what'll happen to your pa and maybe your ma too if they don't get their stinking English hides out of Hodre. You tell 'em, and don't forget we didn't do nothin' to you. These other kids'll swear blind we never touched you. Get it?'
Gavin nodded; he didn't mean to but somehow his head bobbed up and down. A sudden surge of pain made him almost black out, and when he looked up again they'd gone to join the others in kicking the old football. Everybody was totally oblivious to his suffering.
Gavin got to his knees and dusted himself down. He knew he could cry now, but he forced himself to hold the tears back. He straightened up, then doubled over again clutching at his stomach; it was as if a car had run over him and squashed his intestines into a flat mulch. Dizzily he held on to the wall, half afraid that the twin bullies might come back and start on him again.
He thought about going back inside and reporting the incident to Mr Hughes. That meant the schoolmaster would have to take some action. Or would he? Just a bit of a scuffle, boy. They haven't hurt you; goodness, you haven't even got any bruises!
Gavin knew his mother was terrified too. Afraid of Hodre and something that neither of them understood. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was receding; it was a dull ache now, like wind that couldn't escape.
But his fear wasn't lessening. It was growing stronger.
Just as Peter replaced the telephone he heard Janie's Mini pull on to the grass verge outside and the slight judder of pre-ignition as she switched off the engine. He sighed; she'd have to be told the facts now that PC Calvert was on his way up here. He'd hoped she would not return for an hour or two, giving him time to get rid of the law before the cat's disappearance was discussed.
'Hi.' She kicked the door open and came in carrying a cardboard box in her arms. A number of tiny holes had been gouged in its sides with a sharp instrument.
'What's that?' His curiosity overcame all the fears which were crowding in on him.
'Look and see,' she smiled, lowering the box on to the table and lifting one of the flaps.
He bent over, a look of astonishment on his face. 'A rabbit!'
'Yes.' She lifted out the small grey and white half-grown creature. It stared up at them with frightened eyes. 'There was a sign offering rabbits for sale outside one of the cottages in the village. I thought perhaps you could knock up a small hutch of some kind out of all that waste wood that's lying about up in the granary. The cat's been missing for nearly three days now and, well, I thought a pet of some kind might make up for it. Gavin's upset about Snowy, you can tell that. I'm afraid—I get the feeling that—something's happened to that cat.'
'Yes.' He spoke slowly, trying not to meet her gaze. Tm afraid something has happened to it.'
'What—where is he?' Janie clutched the rabbit to her breast as though she feared that the same nameless fate might befall this creature also.
'That scream you heard last night—'
'It wasn't a fox!' Surely he wasn't going to start that argument all over again. 'I know it wasn't.'
'No, no it wasn't a fox.' He stared down at the floor. 'It—it was Snowy.'
'Oh my God, what's happened to him?'
The Wilsons.' Lay the blame first, the details could follow after. "They'll go to any lengths, apparently, with their campaign of terrorism against the English. They've killed Snowy.'
'Oh no! How?'
Well, she'd have to be told, because she would be here when the policeman arrived and he'd want to know every gory detail. They hanged him in a tree and gutted him.'
'How awful, how despicable!' She went a deathly colour that even her make-up could not hide. 'Where did they do it?'
Oh God, that was one question he wished she hadn't asked. 'One of those firs in the stone circle.'
She swayed. Peter grasped her arm, sure she was going to faint. He took the rabbit from her and put it back in the box.
'How—how are you so sure it was the Wilsons?' She clung to him and buried her face against his chest, and he felt the first sobs beginning. It wasn't just the cat; all her fears were building to a peak.
'It must be, part of their crazy campaign to drive the English out of Wales, as well as getting even with me for breaking up their biking session on Saturday.'
'No.' Her voice was low. 'It's not them, I know it. It's that circle—and whatever it is that's still alive up there.'
'Now you're being ridiculous.' Hell, he didn't sound very convincing. There's nothing up there—just a few big stones and some fir trees. It was the Wilsons who killed the cat.'
'Ah1 right.' She gave a loud sigh. 'You're entitled to your opinion, just as I'm entitled to mine. Only I'm afraid I can't stick it here much longer, and neither can Gavin. If you're not prepared to leave, Peter, then I'm going to go and stay with my parents, and I'm taking Gavin with me.'
'I've got to stay." His jaw became square, it always did when he was being stubborn. I've got to stay until I've written my book, and so far I'm not getting on very fast.' A note of anger began to creep into his voice. 'It seems that you're deliberately out to disrupt my work. Drop everything and go and make a rabbit hutch. There's bogeymen in the wood; druids have come back to haunt the old circle. And on top of that I've got this bloody peasant family doing their utmost to drive us out. Well I'm bloody well sick of it and I'm not budging for any of you. You go if you want to, but none of your spooks are going to drive me away.'
She opened her mouth to reply, but checked her angry retort as her ears picked up the sound of a car's engine, slowing, dying, and the metallic clang of a door slamming.
'That sounds like the police,' Peter said. 'Now perhaps we can get something done. Your fears allayed for a start. And then I can get on with my book in peace.'
PC Calvert was only a year or two off retirement age. Possibly he could have attained promotion to a higher rank had it not been for his, or rather his wife's, reluctance to move from Woodside. Her whole life centred round the small mountain village, and she had repeatedly insisted in the early years of their marriage that she would die if she went to live anywhere else. George Calvert had an open mind about the Woodside folk. They were a close-knit, superstitious, suspicious lot, but if you went along with them life was fairly easy. Who was to know if the regulars at the Cat continued drinking for an hour or so after closing time? In their own way the inhabitants of the village were law-abiding, so he let them alone, and they accepted him because he was Ella's husband and almost forgot that he was an outsider, born and bred in Cardiff. He was Welsh anyway, and that was the criterion.
Calvert carefully placed his flat hat upside down on the table and accepted the cup of tea which Jamie handed him, hoping that she wouldn't notice that his hand shook a little. Tall and thin, he looked ungainly on the small upright chair. His brow furrowed as he sipped his drink. He'd seen death many times during his career, and now suddenly he was shaken by the sight of a dead cat. It didn't make sense, he couldn't figure it out. It was the way it had been killed, of course; the sheer callousness of it all.
'It's those Wilsons,' Peter insisted, 'getting their own back on me.'
'Let's not accuse anybody without proof.' A village policeman had to be a diplomat at all times. 'And proof we certainly haven't got.' The last thing he wanted to say was, 'It looks like some kind of ritual killing to me, a sort of sacrifice.' There had been odd reports up and down the country of black magicians carrying out filthy blood rites in old churchyards and such places, but surely they'd never come to a place like Hodre. He'd have to word his report very carefully if he wasn't going to stir up a real hornets' nest. 'Look, Mr Fogg, I'm going to make a few discreet enquiries. If you'll leave it with me for a few days maybe I'll come up with something. On the face of it it looks like the work of vandals.'
'Tell me about the Wilsons.' Peter regarded the policeman steadily. 'The younger ones have been threatening my son at school.'
They're a bit of a rough lot'—a reluctant admission—'the old man's got a permanent chip on his shoulder. I suppose having twins twice over didn't help.' Calvert laughed. 'He's drilled into his lads a kind of fanatical patriotism, sort of if somebody's not Welsh they're an enemy. There never used to be much bother but since one or two strangers drifted into Woodside the Wilsons seem to have taken it upon themselves to wage war on the English. Between you and me'—the constable, smiled faintly, winked and tapped his forehead with his finger—'they're a bit dulally, if you know what I mean. I'm not saying they killed your cat and I'm not saying they didn't, but it's the kind of thing they would do. Maybe we'll find out, maybe we won't, but I'll give 'em a friendly warning that I think it might be them and there'll be trouble if they do anything else. Oh, and if they come up biking again and causing you trouble, just give me a buzz and I'll come up.'
PC Calvert finished his tea, picked up his hat and stood up. 'Well, it's been nice meeting you folks but I'll have to be tiddling along.'
'Just tell me one thing,' Peter said, and added, 'in confidence of course. What do Messrs Peters and Bostock do for a living?'
'Now why on earth do you ask that?' The policeman's eyebrows rose. 'You've not had any trouble with them have you?'
'No.' Peter smiled. 'Except that when we called in at the Cat for a drink last night they recounted a host of horrible legends and rumours purely for our benefit. I wondered why they went to work on moonlight nights in particular.'
'They're poachers.' Calvert's expression was grave. 'And tough customers at that. They've both done time, about three years ago. Twelve months apiece for maliciously wounding a gamekeeper one night. They damned near killed him. Fortunately out here there are no estates where game is reared in large numbers, and mostly they concern themselves with ground game—rabbits and hares—and most of the farmers round here turn a blind eye to it. In a way Peters and Bostock are doing them a favour by keeping the rabbits down. Mind you, if they see a pheasant they'll have it, and there's been reports of poultry gone missing from time to time. Take a tip from me, if they get working the fields round here at night and you hear 'em, let 'em get on with it. When it comes to doing unpleasant things and getting their own back on somebody for something, the Wilsons have got nothing on those two!'
Janie felt a little shiver run up and down her spine. Truly the night had a thousand eyes. And how many other unpleasant characters were roaming the fields and woods around Hodre during the nocturnal hours?
'Don't forget, any bother from anybody and I'll be right up'
'He's genuine,' Peter murmured, as they watched the blue and white Panda van winding its way back down the lane in the direction of Woodside. 'A real nice guy, the best so far in this place.'