Greedily, the Raven had grabbed the boy and held him close, turning him around, ensuring he saw every detail, forcing him to watch the villagers’ humiliation.
This was the same boy. A man now. Yet the images he’d seen today had still been shocking to him. The Raven realised that somehow he had managed to suppress the memories. He didn’t understand psychology. Where he came from, it hadn’t been invented yet. But he knew the mind could play strange tricks, so he knew there was no point in dwelling on what had happened since his last visit. He was more concerned about what was happening now, and why his powers were draining away.
He pointed to the sprawl of bodies by the fire. “They are not your family.”
A shrug. “What can I say? I offered a bit of help and it became a habit.” Martin’s eyes lifted and focused on something over the Raven’s shoulder. “Looks like things aren’t working out the way you wanted them to.”
Spinning round, he saw the Payne family had broken their circle. The terrified girl in the middle seemed to be looking for somewhere to run, but one of the other women put an arm round her. Beyond them, Nigel Salthouse was on his knees, sobbing. His wife and daughter were reaching out to him reassuringly.
“My guess is, he’s asking for forgiveness.” The words came from behind him. “You might want to consider that yourself some time.”
The Walker girls were handing clothes to their parents, who were now sitting side by side, shaking their heads in a mixture of disgust and disbelief.
“You did this.” The Raven’s voice was low, but the menace in it was still strong enough to carry. As he turned to face Martin, he knew his words had been heard. He could see the apprehension in his eyes. Automatically, he expected to feel a small surge from his reaction. That was what always happened. He fed off it, and it grew inside him. Not this time. The realisation was shocking to him. He couldn’t rely on his psychic power or energy to help him. Worse, a lot of his physical energy had been drained away as well. He had no advantage here. What he did have was rage.
He launched himself forward, his hands curled into claws aimed at Martin’s face and chest. Martin jerked sideways, so one hand missed him entirely, and the other scrabbled ineffectively over his right shoulder. Even so, the weight of the Raven’s body smashed into him, and the two men fell to the ground, landing dangerously close to the edge of the fire. Nearby, the Dakins got to their feet and backed away.
As they landed they bounced, throwing the Raven to one side. Martin rolled away from him, and scrambled to his knees. The fire blazed a couple of feet to his right. The Raven was a similar distance from the fire, and about five feet away from Martin. He too had reached his knees. Very warily, they both rose to their feet, each of them braced for an assault from the other. The Raven went first.
It had been some time since he had been unable to draw on other resources. Reliant solely on his own physical strength and fighting skills he had learnt and half-forgotten over the years, his approach was haphazard but brutal.
Twenty-Two
In spite of Martin’s preference to walk away from a fight, there were times when you had no choice. After his beating by the jealous boyfriend and his mates, Martin had realised similar situations might have cropped up again. Next time, he wanted to be more prepared. So he had joined a Dojo and thrown himself into the world of martial arts. Wherever he moved, one of the first things he did was find a new place to practice. It became one of the few constants in his life.
When it came to combat, he had learnt about the two most dangerous weapons he had: his knees and his elbows. Judicious use of these weapons could bring a fight to a rapid end, something he’d experienced on two occasions since then. Though, to be fair, on both occasions, his opponents had been at least slightly inebriated, and almost certainly had no formal training.
This opponent was neither drunk nor untrained.
Twenty-Three
Lunging at Martin, the Raven threw a punch at his face. He was aiming for the nose, aware of how painful and debilitating a broken nose could be. It was also likely to bleed profusely, and if the others saw the blood, it might give them cause for doubt and fear. But Martin’s arms swept across his body, his left forearm deflecting the punch as his right fist thrust towards the Raven’s chest. The sorcerer didn’t have time to move out of the way. Instead, he deliberately relaxed his body, rolling backwards to minimise the effect of the blow.
Martin took the opportunity to take a couple of steps to his left, putting some distance between himself and the fire. A possible weakness?
Righting himself, the Raven didn’t hesitate. He knew he needed every advantage, and giving his opponent time to plan his next move wouldn’t help. This time he swung his left fist, causing Martin to lean back in the direction of the fire. As his hand swept past Martin’s head, he lashed out with his right leg, catching him across the upper thigh. Something flashed in Martin’s eyes, a combination of pain and anger. For a moment, he felt some hope that there might be something to feed on.
He watched with some amusement as Martin took three rapid steps backwards, keeping himself out of range. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so challenging after all.
He was wrong.
As Martin came forward again, he was aware of the sense of anticipation from the people around them. Not concern for the man who was trying to save them. For reasons he couldn’t understand, there was no sign of doubt. Instead, he felt as if they were trying to transmit their own energy to him to give him more strength. He moved back himself, preparing to block whatever was coming. At the last moment, Martin twisted to one side, his body rotating as he did so. Caught out, the Raven lowered his guard for a moment as he tried to work out what was happening. Even as he did, he saw Martin’s left elbow heading for his face. He jerked back so it missed his nose, but felt a tooth loosen as it connected with his jaw.
Even as he tasted blood in his mouth, a punch landed under his rib cage. Although he was too late, instinctively he had raised his hands to protect his face and, in doing so, exposed his abdomen. Still in motion, Martin had brought his right fist up. The angle was awkward, so the impact wasn’t as great as it could have been. The shock effect was enough, though.
Momentum took Martin on, so he was now behind the Raven. Spitting blood, the sorcerer turned to face him. Rage coursed through his veins, fuelling a desire to punish. But it seemed that he wasn’t the only one with that desire. And, even though it was tempered by what was clearly a cold fury, Martin’s desire was stronger.
A flurry of kicks and punches struck the Raven before he’d completed his turn. Blows to his thighs, shins and flanks. They came in hard and fast, yet deliberate. Nothing glanced off. Every time there was contact it hurt. He found himself reacting, all control lost as he tried to fend off each attack. A foot caught him on the inside of his thigh. It was tender, but it also made him realise that there were other tender spots that Martin was getting close to. He focused his efforts on protecting his lower abdomen.
Almost as soon as he did, Martin dropped back, giving them both a little space. He didn’t have time to consider why. Martin leapt up and forward, his right foot connecting with the Raven’s chest. Trying desperately to keep his balance, his arms flailed around him, as if flapping them would hold him upright. Back on his feet, Martin shot forward, spinning around as he did, his back bumping into the Raven’s chest and stomach. Focused on trying not to fall over, the elbow driving into his solar plexus was as unexpected as it was painful.
Martin shoved the Raven back before he had a chance to grab on to him. Already he was turning again. Bent over, the sorcerer didn’t see the kick coming until it was too late. The pain he’d felt in his gut evaporated as piercing agony exploded between his legs. He collapsed to the ground, landing on all fours and panting desperately.
His anger towards Martin was intense. He was filled with an urge to lash out at him. He wanted a weapon that could inflict awful damage to him, lacerating him, punishing him with unbearable pai
n. But winded and experiencing an ache that radiated out to encapsulate his lower torso and upper legs, he could only dream of what he would like to do. In this state, he was in no position to even throw a punch.
He cast an eye around the clearing. It was a place that had given him so much pleasure. The rituals had changed over time, but the objective had always been the same. Now he could see the various families were huddled together in different parts of the clearing. They remained apart from the other families, but all seemed to be doing something remarkable: they were healing.
It had been a mistake bringing the boy into the clearing. More accurately, his mistake had been to hold him so closely. In those few minutes, as he fed off the energy from the others, somehow he must have shared a part of himself with the youngster. They had formed a connection. It had happened before, but in the past he’d been able to use it to his advantage. Perhaps if he’d appreciated this early enough, he could have done the same this time. Instead, it had worked against him.
Even as he realised it, he felt yet more of his energy slip away. He slumped forward submissively, resting his head against the ground. From the corner of his eye, he could see Martin’s boots only a few feet away. They could strike him at any moment. It was a wonder to him that they hadn’t done already. With his hands no longer supporting him, he lifted his right arm.
Somewhere off to his right and behind him, he heard someone call out.
“He’s reaching for something inside his cloak!” It was a warning, alerting Martin to the danger that he might produce a weapon. As his hand encircled the metallic object hung from his chain, the Raven smiled to himself at that thought. He wasn’t going to produce anything. Quite the opposite.
The last words he heard were: “Bring your hands out where I can...” And then he was gone.
Part Five - Men Are From Mars
One
DI Collins was at his desk. In front of him was the report he’d compiled for the MoD. They’d taken the investigation over. Apparently it was no longer a police matter. He’d assumed the Army would be taking over, so was surprised when he was confronted with uniforms from the Air Force. They were sitting across the desk from him now. Air Marshal Buxton and Group Captain Rowland.
The Air Marshal was in his late forties. Slate grey hair, clean shaven, and pale-faced. He looked as if he spent far too much time indoors. Rowland looked younger, but that may simply have been because he led a more active life. His hair was slightly longer than you would normally expect of a military man, a feature that Collins didn’t overlook. He was broad, but in good shape.
Buxton’s rank alone told you he was in charge, but he sat back and let the Group Captain do all the talking. Collins was aware of being observed as Rowland gently interrogated him. The door was closed.
“I understand you have no recollection of Saturday night?”
“It’s a bit hazy.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I remember working here late, but I don’t remember leaving or getting home.”
“But you did go home?”
“That’s where I woke up Sunday morning.”
“Has your wife been able to throw any light on this haziness?”
Collins knew what he was implying, and he didn’t like it. But he also knew he was severely outranked and that these guys could pull strings he didn’t even know existed. So he had to put up with it.
“She doesn’t know what time I got in. But she’s used to that. It goes with the territory.”
“And what time did she go to bed?”
“She’s not sure, but not earlier than eleven.”
“So you got in some time between eleven and...?”
“Around eight the next morning. That’s when she woke up.”
“Any idea what time you left here?”
“No. The last person to see me was the Desk Sergeant, and he reckons that was between seven and eight Saturday night.”
“Potentially thirteen hours unaccounted for then?”
Glances were exchanged. Collins wondered if they were debating whether to have him committed or not. Buxton nodded for Rowland to continue.
“What do you know about events at Forest Farm?”
“I take it you mean on Saturday night?”
“Of course.”
“Nothing more than you do.” He tapped the report. “Everything I know is in here.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy reading that later. For now, though, give me your take on what happened?”
“Well, to be fair, we were only called in after the Army found their men dead.”
“But you went up to the farm. What did you make of it?”
“It was a massacre. Whatever hit those boys, they didn’t have a chance.”
Rowland frowned. “Whatever?”
Collins looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry?”
“You said ‘whatever’. Not whoever.”
He shrugged at the pair of them. “Well, frankly, it did look as if they’d been attacked by machines, not people.”
More exchanged glances.
“Any indications as to who might be responsible?”
“Not really.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
“All right. No obvious suspects.”
“What about the McLeans?”
“Can’t see it myself.”
“With respect, Inspector, that’s hardly concrete evidence. Were they at the farmhouse?”
“No. They said they’d found the events of the previous night too disturbing, so they stayed with friends.”
“Have the friends confirmed that?”
“Yes.”
“And who are they?”
Collins glanced down at his notes. “An Adam and Jennifer Hawthorn.”
“Locals?”
“They live at another farm nearby.” He lifted a page to check the details. The name struck him as odd, and yet strangely familiar.
Rowland was moving on. Collins got the impression that he was going through the motions anyway. The McLeans weren’t likely suspects.
“Didn’t they have a lodger with them?”
“That’s right. A bloke called Gates.”
“Where was he?”
“Under the circumstances, he moved out as well. His family live in the village, and he stopped with them. Apparently their sofa was a more attractive option than staying at the farm.”
“And presumably his family have corroborated that.”
“Yes.”
The Group Captain sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. Collins took the opportunity to look at Buxton, but he seemed more intent on his wing man than anything else.
Dropping his gaze, Rowland asked: “And what about Scene of Crime? Did they find anything?”
It was tempting to be flippant and ask: “What, besides all the blood and gore?” But Collins thought better of it. He still had to provide for his wife and boys.
“Nothing that jumped out at us. No traces of any weapons other than the ones the soldiers were carrying. There were fragments of clothing all over the place, but if you’d seen the state of the master bedroom, it could take months or even years for us to work out what fabrics came from where.” He paused and shook his head as if in disbelief. “There was one strange thing though. There were bloody hundreds of fingerprints, which is hardly surprising given the number of bodies we had going in and out of that place last weekend. But we did find a match.”
“Well why didn’t you say so before?” This from Buxton, who suddenly leaned forward. Collins half expected him to produce a swagger stick and start waving it at him while he demanded an explanation. “This could get us our man.”
“I doubt it, sir. The fingerprints were on record from two separate murders, but the killer was never identified.”
“Still, it might help us.”
“I doubt it. The murders took place in nineteen thirty-nine.”
Two
They took his re
port with them. He’d typed it himself. No carbons. Just as instructed. Any other records about the events in Ravens Gathering were now in Rowland’s briefcase. The case was closed as far as Westfield Police were concerned. Still, the Superintendent would be pleased. One less thing for him to worry about. For a small town, they had enough crime on their hands.
It wasn’t in his nature to let things lie, so Collins was surprised at how relaxed he felt about it all. His reaction puzzled him, but not enough to make him feel any more concerned. Frankly, the MoD were welcome to it. There was something strange about the whole situation. Especially the fact that they hadn’t seemed interested in why Simon Cantor’s body had been found on the farm, or why his wife had been raped and her mutilated body left to rot at the vicarage. At least, not during their interview. But they’d taken the paperwork for that as well.
As he watched them walk away from the building, he was struck again by the fact that the RAF were involved. It was Friday now, and the Army had been buzzing around the farm incessantly since last weekend. So why the sudden change?
Sometimes the answers come when you least expect them. No matter how hard you rack your brains, you can’t make the connection. Even for a copper like him, who was used to lateral thinking.
The boys were watching Raiders of the Lost Ark when he arrived home that evening. Collins was vaguely aware of the video playing in the background as he wandered back and forth around the house. After swapping his suit for something more comfortable, he set the table while his wife finished making dinner. The TV was at the far end of the lounge-diner. Indiana Jones was telling the pretty girl in the white dress to close her eyes. Collins wasn’t much into fantasy and adventure films, but he’d sat through the film a few times with the boys. It had been good to share the experience with them. They were getting older now, though, and weren’t really interested in sharing things with their parents.
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