by Guy N Smith
The transistor crackled over a background of unrecognisable pop music, some disc-jockey shouting to try and make himself heard above it. Maybe he realised that people somewhere were foolish enough to buy three quid trannies like this and was doing his best to help them. Not that Peter was interested in the DJ's verbal garbage. It was just another human voice, even if it did sound like a dalek. In a while, Peter grinned wryly to himself, he'd end up talking back to it—and that would be a damned sight worse than talking to himself.
It was at that moment that the light dimmed, flickered. And went out.
Darkness! Maybe he'd slipped down into the black abyss of oblivion at last and his brain had burst because he couldn't stand any more. But he knew he hadn't because the DJ was still gabbling incessant nonsense, putting another disc on his ever-spinning turntable, and he certainly wouldn't be in the chasm of nothingness. Which meant Peter was still in Hodre.
The sudden plunge into darkness didn't come as a mind-shattering shock. Possibly his nerves were acclimatising to a series of crises so that they accepted them. He found himself wondering why the power had failed. Doubtless a cable somewhere had snapped under the weight of the snow. Or maybe it was something simple like a blown fuse. He'd better check . . .
The voice coming from the transistor had changed from inane rambling to a more serious tone. And the music seemed to have faded from the background but he couldn't be sure because the crackling was louder again.
'. . . a news-flash.'
, Peter tensed in the darkness; it was as though he had the telephone receiver to his ear and the voice was talking to him, giving a message of vital importance: You can't afford to miss it. Listen carefully, it's a bad line. And bad news.
' . . . break-out earlier today . . . police have launched a massive search . . . people in remote areas of these . . . warned to stay indoors after dark . . . this man is ... life-sentence for the murder of ... police spokesman said today . . . known to be dangerous . . . warned not to approach him if seen , . . contact your local police station or tele-. phone . . . believed to be heading in ... Welsh mountains ...
The crackling wasn't entirely the transistor; a buzzing in Peter's ears somehow seemed to be related to the pile-driving headache and the drumming of his pulses. The DJ's stupid banter began again, with the kind of sick joke that might scare the hell out of anybody living alone, something about 'watch-out if there's a knock on the door; it could be that escaped maniac dropping in to listen to Record Roundup.' Bloody idiot!
Heading in the direction of the Welsh mountains. . . Peterfelt himself go cold. An escaped maniac on the loose, heading for the Welsh mountains. Here. Hodre!
That was stupid, letting his imagination run riot. The Welsh mountains covered a huge area; the fugitive could be anywhere. That in itself was a disconcerting thought.
First he had to try and get the power restored, if that was possible. He groped, found his torch and went in search of the fusebox. The pantry was the best place to look.
Right first time. And all the fuses were OK. At least, they seemed to be; he couldn't find one that had blown, and anyway there didn't seem to be any spares. That meant it was a cable somewhere, brought down under the weight of the snow or . . .
He went back into the kitchen and picked UD the gun and cartridges. Upstairs was the obvious place to withstand a siege. The bedroom window commanded a wide view of the ^<'vered slopes and the stone circle. The enemy didn't to come that way, though. They might circle round and ic in from the front. Even so, they had to mount the stairs "to get to him, and he could hold off an army that way. Provided the attackers were human. Of course they were. Hadn't he wounded one, drawn blood? If the blood had come from that cowled white figure.
The bedroom was cold and Peter could see his breath as he forced the small window open. He'd have to leave it open because the glass was frosted up and he'd never see outside otherwise.
The starlight seemed brighter than the previous night, a glittering landscape of frozen whiteness only broken up by patches of shadow. He loaded the gun, rested it on the chest beneath the window and began his vigil. It was going to be a long cold night.
The vixen screeched again and made him jump. Damn it, couldn't her mate find her without her making a row like that? Peter was all keyed up and wished he had some cigarettes. But he didn't, so he'd have to make the best of it.
Funny, he'd anticipated the deer showing themselves on the hill below the forest only a few seconds before his searching eyes picked out the first of the moving black dots. A kind of sixth sense and it was functioning well tonight. Christ, there were a lot of deer up there, whole lines of them merging into bunches, on the move the whole time. They were restless, in a hurry, as though they were going somewhere in particular and didn't have a minute to lose. Probably they were starving, getting desperate for food of any kind. In which case, why didn't they move down to the valleys, where the snow wouldn't be so deep and with luck they'd find some grass they could scratch down to? Canny creatures like deer ought to realise that—or perhaps the blizzard had put them in a blue funk. Or something had!
The herd came and went, a vast movement that crossed the top slope and then doubled back towards the wood until the shadows cast by the trees swallowed them up. Peter tried to work out their exact position; they had gone into the forest just about where Don Peter's body lay, his head crushed in, his finger still pointing accusingly. Maybe the vixen was there, too, feeding on . . . He tried to push the thought from his mind. He was feeling sick again.
He remembered the news-flash again, then reminded himself that he had a gun. They were the ones who had to do the worrying; they were in for a nasty shock.
Everywhere so still, so silent. That was what got on his nerves. Why didn't that bloody vixen scream again or an owl hoot? He was listening till he heard sounds that weren't there.
He tried to work out some kind of plan for the following day. The weather held the key to everything, his whole plight. If it did not begin to thaw then he could be here for days—nights! Oh God, he'd crack eventually and go mad in this silence that was pregnant with lurking evil.
He found himself staring at the whiteness outside through slitted eyes. His lids seemed to be weighted down, fighting to close. Jesus, he had to keep awake at all costs. It wasn't easy. The glare of the snow was like a powerful sedative, urging him to lie down, to forget everything. There's nothing out there, it's all in the mind, he told himself. No, it bloody well isn't; they are out there waiting for me to fall asleep so that they can close in. Maybe they even know I've got a gun and all they have to do is to wait.
It was full daylight. Peter awoke with a start, his brain computer reminding him instantly that something was wrong. But it took several seconds to process the necessary data which brought everything back to him. Oh Jesus Christ, he'd fallen asleep! The very thing he'd fought against, but in the end fatigue had beaten him. His eyes had closed and he'd slumped across the wooden chest and slept. The old hammer gun was beneath him, fully cocked. Miraculously he hadn't caught the triggers and discharged both barrels.
His thumb shook as he lowered the hammers gently. Outside, the winter sun was high in the sky; the morning was well advanced. He had slept late but they hadn't come after all. At least he didn't think they had. Maybe it was all in the mind.
Cautiously, still carrying the gun, he went downstairs and checked every room. Doors and windows were still fastened. Nobody had tried to force their way in.
Peter munched some dry crackers out of a tin on the shelf and tried to work out a plan of action. The clock on the mantelshelf showed that it was eleven-fifteen. Immediately he pushed any idea of making a break for it out of his mind. The weak sunlight wouldn't melt the snow. It could go on like this for days, maybe weeks. There wasn't a thing he could do about.
He groaned and fought off despair. One way or another he was trapped. They knew that; they could take their time coming for him. It was going to be a twenty-four-hour vigil.
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He unlocked the door and went outside. There was a steady drip of water from the sagging guttering at the front of the cottage, but the rear was in the shade and a line of icicles showed no signs of melting.
The glare of the sun on the snow hurt his eyes; he hadn't fully shaken off his headache. There wasn't any point in making the treacherous ascent into the frozen wilderness which even the creatures of the wild seemed to have deserted. No point at all. Slowly he went back indoors and locked the door behind him. It was truly a siege in every sense; the enemy hadn't shown themselves but they were up there all right. He could sense them. The feeling of being watched made him want to draw the curtains and shut out the sunlight, and hide himself away.
Peter switched on the transistor. The static didn't seem so bad this time. Pop music—what else! One DJ's voice was much the same as another, aimless banter and a host of unfunny jokes. 'It's one o'clock and over to the news desk for the latest world-wide news . . . '
Time had passed quickly for once when it should have been standing still.
'The hunt is still going on for the escaped convict from one of Britain's top-security prison hospitals. John Louvelle, serving a life sentence, who escaped early yesterday morning, is still at large and the reports that he was last seen heading through a remote Welsh mountain village have now been confirmed. Police have warned the public not to approach this man as he is known to be violent and dangerous. Drifting snow has hampered the search . . . '
Peter shivered, which reminded him that he must re-light the Rayburn. Louvelle wouldn't come to Hodre, though.
'And here is the weather forecast: snow which has affected Wales and the west country has now died away but temperatures are expected to remain below freezing for the next twenty-four hours.'
Peter switched off the transistor. He couldn't stomach a further dose of pop music on top of that. Louvelle—he remembered the case, about three years ago. The fellow had taken a young woman and two children hostage in a remote country cottage (like Hodre!) and he'd kept the police at bay for four days. No motive, just for the hell of it. In the end they'd tried to rush him but he'd been as wary and as dangerous as a treed cougar; he'd cut his victims' throats and seriously wounded two policeman before they overpowered him. The children had died. Peter didn't remember what had happened to their mother.
He found himself going back to the window and looking out again. Hodre and the surrounding hills were big and wild. Like Louvelle. He could be out there too.
Peter contemplated passing the time by trying to work on his book. After half an hour he gave it up. His concentration was shot to hell. He realised how besieged gunmen felt: after a time they didn't give a damn, went out shooting and got mown down in a hail of lead, Dillinger-style. The only way out was to sit tight—if his nerves would stick it—and wait for the weather to change.
He went back to the window and watched late afternoon slip into evening, the sun blood red as it slid behind the western mountain range. Even indoors Peter's breath was clouding on the windows. Tonight there was going to be one helluva frost.
At length he drew the curtains and Ut a stub of candle in a saucer. Its glow didn't serve much purpose except to give him a circle of flickering yellow light to sit in; primitive man again, afraid of the dark because it held unknown terrors. Little had changed over thousands of years.
He resisted the temptation to try and tune in to a news reading on one of the transistor's wavelengths. Cowardice. He couldn't face it. It was as though the media were out to get at him too; or somebody or something was using them to wear him down.
He wondered if there were any more candles anywhere. He should have searched for some during the daylight hours.
Doubtless Janie would know he was cut off here. But just being snowed up was no reason to send a helicopter to search for him. Up in these mountain regions it was a way of life; everybody accepted it.
The candle was getting low, melting its wax into the saucer, the flame larger and flickering fast. Peter estimated it might burn for another half hour. After that he might as well go upstairs to the bedroom.
Why not stay here in the kitchen? If they wanted him they had to come through the door and he had a loaded gun. He was tense, edgy at the prospect of darkness, man's oldest fear, once again. In a way the reflection of the snow made it worse because in the dim glow he thought he saw things.
He was listening to the silence again. He could hear something if he concentrated, like the wind—only it wasn't the wind. Something was moving . . .
Oh God, something really was moving1. There was a sound tike a heavy animal dragging itself along across the frozen snow, the ice cracking and giving way beneath it; perhaps the deer—limping, weakening, scraping its hooves, drawing in great gulps of frosty air, wounded; so it had to come to man, trusting him. Scratching at the door!
Peter whirled in his chair and brought the shotgun up so that the barrels were trained on the door, twin tubes of Damascus steel that wavered because the hands holding them were unsteady, the forefinger touching the front trigger lightly, poised to take a pressure.
He listened again. Laboured rasping breaths from outside, a scratching on the woodwork, then something heavy pounding so that the door vibrated .
The candle flickered and almost went out. Peter was aware of rivulets of cold sweat running down his forehead and making his eyes smart. The voice inside him, the one that always highlighted his worst fears, was screaming at him: 'That's not a deer. Deer don't come near human habitation, they can't knock on doors. It's them; they've come for you!'
He should have fired both barrels simultaneously, a double charge that would have ripped into the woodwork with the full force of the chokes, almost a lethal ball of shot shattering its way out, tearing into whatever was out there. Then reloaded and fired again and again, yelling through the thick cloud of acrid powdersmoke, 'Take that you bastards, and that. Never thought I'd have a gun, did you?'
But he didn't fire. Suddenly he didn't have that kind of courage. Murder. Manslaughter. A dozen or more reasons flitted through his frightened brain and prevented him from pressing the trigger. He remained poised. Waiting. Listening.
Then the candle went out; a final flicker of enlarged flame cast a wide circle of light that dimmed and died, leaving him in total blackness. Somehow he held the gun in one hand and groped for his torch with the other. Even as the beam of white light hit the door the pounding came again, louder this time, so that the bolt rattled.
A voice. He couldn't tell what it was saying but it was definitely a voice. A kind of desperate cry, fists pummelling the door again.
A lot of things went through Peter's fear-crazed brain: that the mad killer, Louvelle, had made it to a lone habitation, somewhere to hole up for the winter. If it was him he'd have a knife, and use it without hesitation. Or the white-cloaked figure, still dripping blood from its shotgun wound, come in search of revenge. / killed your cat and your rabbit, now I'm going to kill you
Peter was on his feet. His legs felt weak and were trying to pull him back down into the chair. He moved forward a couple of steps and called out, 'Who's there?'
Silence for a few moments, then the scratching started again, lower down, almost at ground level. The blows were weaker than before as though the nocturnal visitor's strength was ebbing.
'I said who's there?' Peter scarcely recognised his own voice, a high-pitched shout that was almost a scream.
No answer. Just that same laboured breathing.
He reached out a hand and tugged at the bolt. He had to jerk it clear of its socket. The latch rattled, then steadied as something on the other side pushed at the door.
Peter backed away a step, and held the gun in one hand whilst with the other he leaned forward and flicked the latch with the end of the torch. The door creaked slowly inwards; he backed away another pace, his mouth so dry it was painful to swallow.
Then he saw it, clearly circled in the white beam of the torch: a figure that crawle
d on all fours and seemed to be caught up in the torn bedsheet, which had been fashioned into a cowled garment. The face was twisted with agony, hideously caked with dried blood.
A bloody hand was raised, pointing at him. Accusing. Words hammered into his brain: You killed me and now I've come for youl
He wanted to flee, to scream. But there was nowhere to run to and his vocal chords were paralysed. It wasn't possible, but it was happening before his eyes: the tattered, bloody corpse he'd left up in the big snowdrift was here, crawling in through his own doorway.
Don Peters, the Woodside poacher, had returned from the dead to exact a terrible revenge!
15
Peter had the shotgun loaded and cocked, yet for some reason he did not squeeze its double triggers. He just stared in disbelief, the barrels lowering until they were pointing down at the floor.
"Help me!
With that cracked, pathetic cry, the white-robed figure before him slumped down, breathing heavily, with a gurgling sound as though there was some obstructing fluid in the lungs. His head was raised, looking up, an expression of sheer terror on the blood-caked features. 'Help me, lock the door . . . They are out there!'
And in that instant reasoning came like a cooling wind across a parched desert, and Peter expelled his pent-up breath in one loud gasp of relief. The man who lay on the floor before him was not Don Peters; it was the dead man's poaching partner, Mick Bostock!
'Bostock!' he grunted. 'What's happening? What the hell are you doing here? And—'
'Close the door.' It was a croak of terror. "They are out there, I tell you.'
'They?' Peter reached the door, slammed it shut and shot the bolt. 'And who the hell are they?'
'My God, I wish I knew.' The poacher was close to breaking down. 'But they'll kill us both if they get us!'
Somehow Peter got Bostock into the kitchen chair, and by the light of his torch began to remove that snow-saturated, partly frozen bloodstained outer garment. It was a head wound of some kind, a gash above the left ear which had bled profusely before it congealed, and matted hair clung to the dried blood. Nasty but not dangerous.