Peter wound down the window of the Saab. 'Good afternoon, Mr Hughes. I trust everything's OK.'
'Absolutely.' A smirk, the deep set eyes hooded by the thick brows. 'No trouble. I never thought there would be.'
Peter's gaze switched to Gavin; the boy met it for a moment, then dropped his eyes. Embarrassment, uneasiness. Because Hughes was there, and the other children had witnessed this protection by authority?
'Good. Thank you for your help, Mr Hughes. I trust that from now onwards there won't be any need for me to trouble you again.'
Tm sure there won't.' Another smirk: I wasn't pleased to help but I've been seen to do my duty.
'How's things?' Peter tried to sound light-hearted as he nosed the Saab out of the village and took the left fork for the steep climb up to Hodre.
'OK.' Gavin's tone was flat, expressionless, as though he was deliberately holding back something more than just a threatening flood of tears.
'The Wilsons didn't bother you?'
'No.' A lie that had to be forced and came out as a husky whisper.
'That's OK then.' Peter glanced sideways, looking for signs of bruising, but found none. Something had happened all right but it was best if it came out in its own good time. And if Hughes was covering anything up there would be one helluva rumpus; a letter to the education authorities amongst other things. Nobody pushed the Foggs about.
'Has Snowy turned up?'
'No, I'm afraid he hasn't. Probably still off courting somewhere. But we've got you a new pet, a rabbit. All nice and snug in its hut.'
Peter half-expected Gavin to say something like: 'I don't want a rabbit, I want Snowy.' The boy wasn't normally sulky but it was obvious that inside he was distraught. But he just turned and stared out of the window at the murky grey landscape that was darkening fast. Damn the low cloud, Peter thought. Wouldn't it ever lift? It was making life increasingly difficult, spawning its own atmosphere of foreboding—as though some unseen evil force had cast a mantle over the mountains to cloak the portents of doom.
'I don't think Gavin's at all well.' Janie came into the study shortly after nine o'clock, caught her husband in mid-sentence again and forced herself to wait. 'He says he's got stomach-ache, and he's never lied over ailments before. I think the best thing is to keep him off school tomorrow.'
'We'll see how he is in the morning. There's definitely something on his mind. I reckon the Wilsons have had a go at him but he's scared to say. I don't trust that fellow Hughes.'
'He swears they haven't been near him, but I know he's holding something back. Thank God I managed to get that rabbit, otherwise he'd've been really upset over the cat. God, he mustn't ever know the truth. Anyway, I'm going up to bed, I'm absolutely shattered.'
I'll be up later.' He turned back to his typewriter. 'I've just got to try and catch up otherwise I'm never going to get this book written.'
Janie went out into the hall, closing the door softly behind her. Peter's working days had extended into working nights. He just did not seem to sense that things were closing in on them, unknown forces that she couldn't explain.
Janie was still awake when Peter came to bed, but she feigned sleep and listened to him undressing and getting into bed beside her, his breathing gradually becoming deeper, until at last she knew he was asleep. She hadn't wanted another discussion, hadn't the energy to argue over what was going on here. Maybe if she took Gavin and went back to her parents then her husband would see sense.
She could not understand why she was still wide awake. At a quarter to ten it had been as much as she could do to mount the stairs and get undressed. Now her brain was working at full speed, going back over all the ghastly, inexplicable events, trying to find logical explanations, giving up, then trying again.
Her weariness returned gradually, almost soothingly, like a tranquilliser for easing mental agony. She began to doze, thinking about that rabbit, wondering if they ought to keep it indoors. At least that way it would be safe.
Somewhere a telephone was ringing. ,
She had got out of the habit of answering the phone because ninety-nine per cent of the calls were for Peter. Sometimes she just let it ring because she wasn't interested anyway.
Gradually full consciousness returned. She opened her eyes and saw the room illuminated faintly by waning moonlight. Tomorrow she must make up those curtains to shut out the night and its multitude of lurking horrors.
She realised with a sudden sense of alarm that it was the phone downstairs. Not a dream. Not the television or the radio. Or a neighbour's phone. Theirs!
She sat up, starting to tremble. Peter was still sleeping soundly on his back with his mouth half-open making a senile son of snoring noise. He hadn't heard the telephone, and he wouldn't if she didn't wake him. These days he often slept through the alarm clock.
Her hand was on its way to shake his shoulder, but she snatched it back. She swallowed, feeling a constriction in her throat. Make somebody happy with a phone call. Not at this ungodly hour! It must be for her, because Peter didn't have any relatives and both his parents were dead. Oh God, maybe hers were as well, and that was what somebody was ringing to tell her!
Panic! She swung her legs off the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers, grabbed her housecoat and threw it around her shoulders.
A headlong dash took her out on to the landing. She scrabbled to find the light-switch; no moonlight here, just impenetrable hostile blackness. She hesitated at the head of the stairs and almost turned back. If I don't answer it I won't hear. . . Hear what'?
She clung to the rail, almost slipping on the sharp right-angled bend when she trod on the hem of her housecoat. Now she could see the telephone, an ivory monster that seemed to glow luminously, a thing that was alive and trembling with venom. Taunting her: I've got a message for you, Janie Fogg. She made it down to the hall. The ringing was loud, a harsh sound that hurt her ears. She could stop it by simply lifting up the receiver and dropping it back on its cradle, like slapping a naughty child to stop it from screaming. But that wasn't the answer. It would only ring again.
She stretched out a shaking hand, wondering if she had the strength to lift the plastic handset as high as her ear. Your father's dead, Janie—a sudden heart attack. Bad news, Janie—your mother was out walking the dog when a car mounted the pavement and . . . Her sister's voice, crying so you could hardly tell what she was saying, car crash . . . both dead . . . ' She grabbed the receiver and pressed it to her ear. Her lips moved. She intended to say, 'Janie Fogg speaking,' but no sound came. At least that damned ringing had stopped. No it hadn't, it was still vibrating in her brain, spreading to every nerve in her body.
The line was buzzing and she wondered for a moment if it had gone dead. Perhaps it was a wrong number, and she could give vent to a burst of anger and get it all out of her system.
'Janie Fogg speaking.' She was amazed by the sudden return of her vocal powers, by the way her voice sounded normal as though she was answering a routine call in the daytime.
Silence. Nothing. Except that buzzing sound.
'Janie Fogg speaking. Is anybody there?'
Damn it, this was some stupid STD fault. She found herself becoming angry. Didn't the tele-communications people realise the distress they could cause somebody by the phone suddenly ringing in the dead of night? They didn't damned well care so long as they made a whacking profit every year and put the charges up again so they could make more. Greed. Sheer greed.
'Is anybody there?' Her scream incorporated both fear and anger. And relief because her parents weren't dead after all.
There was no answer. She had the handset clear of her ear and was about to slam it down, when she caught another sound above the buzzing—a rasp, as though somebody on the other end of the line was fighting for breath, trying to speak. Your father and I have both had heart attacks. We're . . .
'For God's sake who's there?' She crushed the receiver against her ear.
She could hear it more plainly now: somebody breathing heavily, not speaking because they couldn't—or wouldn't. That awful thought sent a sharp stab of fear into the pit of her stomach. She'd had a call one night some years ago when Peter was away, and she'd had to break off from Gavin's nightime feed to answer it. Heavy breathing just like this (it had been a phone box call), and then the obscenities had poured forth. A youth, somebody like those Wilson yobs. She'd wanted to slam the phone down, but she hadn't been able to. She'd found herself compelled to listen, trembling as the anonymous caller hit his climax and screamed a torrent of filth at her. And even after the line had gone dead she had remained there white and shaking, listening to the buzzing of a dead line. She hadn't told Peter to this day, but she'd never got rid of the fear. Now it was stronger than ever.
The breathing was stentorian, in no way sexually charged. Unemotional.
'Answer me!' Janie's vocal chords were weakening again.
'Who is it? What do you want?'
Just breathing, asthmatic almost, rasping steadily. And listening.
Then sheer terror exploded inside her. The smooth plastic in her hand became a repulsive wriggling slimy venomous reptile which she flung from her. It hit the wall, fell back and bounced on the extremity of the coiled flex, a living malevolent shiny white thing that turned this way and that, gasping for breath as it did so.
She backed away but couldn't take her gaze off the two dark deep-set eyes that swung and watched her, the phlegm-rattling creature that would have attacked her if it had not been tethered.
Janie retreated as far as the foot of the stairs and closed her eyes. God, she could still hear it. Whoever it was, why didn't they give up and ring off. Louder now, a terrible noise that compelled her to stand and listen, and almost had her picking up the swinging handset again.
Finally she broke the spell, ran at the stairs and fell up the lower steps as her nightdress became entwined with her slippered feet. Dragging herself up, she crawled desperately, a step at a time, like a child that has not yet learned to walk. Fleeing frantically, she still heard the intake and expulsion of breath from unknown lungs. Even when she reached the landing, she still could not shut it out. It was following her ...
Then it went dead; the dialling tone seemed to shriek hatred up the stairs, making her press back against the wall with cupped hands over her ears.