Skull in the Wood

by Sandra Greaves

  ‘What about Jez?’ I said.

  ‘She’ll have to manage on her own.’

  I turned and faced him. ‘She’s coming with us.’

  Matt’s mouth twisted, but he knew I wouldn’t give in. He let out a sharp breath. ‘OK, we’ll have a go. If you get through first, I’ll try and pass her up to the window. Maybe you can pull her out. But be quick.’

  He gave me a leg up. The window was tight, but I managed to haul myself through. I thanked my lucky stars that East Barn backs on to the side yard, which is entirely enclosed except for the gate leading round to the other side. I’d be safe here for a moment or two.

  It was a big drop down, though. I breathed in, shut my eyes and jumped. At the front of the barn the crazed baying continued unbroken.

  I looked back up again. Jez’s paws appeared at the window then disappeared. I held my breath. At last they reappeared again.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ I whispered. ‘Come on.’ And suddenly she was twisting through and balancing on the sill and springing down to me, and I was holding my hand over her muzzle to stop her from barking, and hugging her tight.

  My heart was racing so hard I thought I might collapse. I was desperate to run now, but I forced myself to wait till Matt appeared. As I cast my eyes around in panic, I spotted something against the back wall of East Barn that that might just help us. Gabe must have left it there by mistake. I offered a silent prayer of thanks.

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ I said under my breath.

  There was a violent splintering of wood and an eruption of baying. The hounds must be nearly inside the barn.

  Then Matt was down on the ground beside me, panting as if he’d never stop. I let go of Jez and grabbed hold of his hand.

  ‘I only just did it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I’d make it in time.’ His eyes were wide and starey.

  ‘If we’re really quiet we can sneak through to the back yard from here while they’re still in the front one, then into the vegetable garden,’ I whispered. ‘They might not see us. With luck we’ll be able to get into the house through the back door. If it’s open, that is.’

  He shook his head. ‘They’ll catch us. They’ll trace our scent to the window and work it out. They’re going to hunt us, Tilda. To the death.’

  Suddenly I felt furious. We couldn’t give in. The gabbleratchet wasn’t going to defeat us. There had to be a way to stop this.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said.

  I picked up the petrol can I’d found by the wall and unscrewed the lid. Then I fished in my coat pocket and waved a box of matches in the air.

  ‘Take these,’ I said. ‘I’ll lay a trail of petrol. If they start following, you’ve got to light it straight away. Now come on, and be careful not to step in it. If you don’t want to fry, that is.’

  I stole away, one hand on Jez’s collar, the other clutching the petrol can. Matt was standing in a kind of daze, still too shocked to move. But at last he pulled himself together and followed me.

  Cautiously we skirted round the back of East Barn. We could hear the hounds inside the barn now, looking for us. There was no time to hang about. I glanced at Matt and he nodded. I stepped well away from the wall and started pouring a line of petrol on to the flagstones.

  Suddenly the noise changed. There was a flurry of yaps and a deep, low growling. I turned round and felt my gaze being drawn upwards.

  There on the windowsill, staring down at us, was Lawless. I don’t know how he’d managed to get up there on his own, but he had. His eyes met mine. There was nothing in them that I recognised any more.

  He sniffed the air. Then he raised his head and howled.

  31

  Matt

  We started running. Already we were out of the side yard and crossing the back yard past the chicken shed towards the back garden, and Tilda kept on sloshing out petrol behind her like there was no tomorrow. In shaking fingers I held a match ready.

  And all at once the hounds were surging out of the front yard and through towards us in a black river, and Jez was growling back at them and trying to shake off Tilda’s hand.

  ‘Now!’ she screamed.

  I lit the match and threw.

  The flames shot up. One of the hounds fell and yelped in pain. The rest wheeled round in a mass of dark bodies, snarling and snapping. One started to howl. Was it Lawless? Then the others took up the call. The cry of the gabbleratchet rose again, cold and deathly and utterly terrifying.

  We raced towards the back door.

  Please, please don’t let it be locked, I prayed.

  I got there first and turned the knob. Miraculously, wonderfully, utterly fantastically, the door opened. Tilda dragged Jez through and we banged it shut and bolted it top and bottom.

  I hurtled through the hall and bolted the front door, too. Tilda was clinging to Jez as if she’d never let her go.

  ‘Let’s take her upstairs,’ she said. ‘I don’t want her near them.’

  We bundled Jez up and into Tilda’s room. Tilda slumped on to her bed and Jez got up with her. I swept a load of untidy clothes off a chair and fell into it.

  ‘Maybe they’ll give up now,’ said Tilda. But she didn’t sound like she believed it for a moment.

  I wanted to play along, but I couldn’t. Outside the hounds were swarming round the back door, baying for our blood.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘They’re not going to give up.’

  ‘Why?’ said Tilda. ‘How do you know?’ I could hear the beginning of a wail catch at the back of her words.

  ‘I don’t know. But I can feel it in my bones. It’s him. Old Scratch. The devil. First he wanted Kitty. And now he wants me, too.’

  Outside the clamour of the hounds had moved closer. It sounded as if it was right under the bedroom window. Suddenly we heard the smashing of glass and the baying grew higher and higher. They were inside the house.

  We both froze. Then together we began pushing the chest of drawers against the door.

  Tilda sat on her bed and hugged Jez close. We waited. And waited.

  I knew it was all because of me. I’d made that stupid bargain in my dream. I’d told myself that sacrificing Paul was the only thing I could do. But I’d wanted it, too. I’d wanted him out of the picture, out of my life, even though I knew Mum loved him. Knew that she wanted to marry him. And now Kitty would die – and me and maybe Tilda too.

  I crept over to the window, keeping my head down. The frenzied barking was louder still, and down below I could hear baying and crashing. It wouldn’t take them long to find us.

  Suddenly I realised what I had to do. My stomach churned as I peeked down at the creatures swarming beneath the window. But I had to save Tilda – whatever it took.

  I unfastened the latch and pushed the window ajar. The sound of the hounds rose louder.

  ‘Matt!’ said Tilda. She sounded terrified. ‘What are you doing?’

  I looked back at her.

  ‘I’m going down there. I’ll draw them away from here. Maybe I can trap them in a barn and get help. I’ve got to do something!’

  I put my hands to the frame and started lifting myself up.

  ‘No!’ Tilda whispered urgently. ‘You’ll get yourself killed!’

  ‘I have to,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be really careful. It’ll mean you’ll have a chance. And Kitty, too. And it’s all my fault anyway.’

  All at once I was being dragged back to the floor.

  ‘Don’t!’ Tilda yelled. Her words rushed out helterskelter. ‘Matt, it’s not your fault.’ She took a breath. ‘And it’s not Aunty Caroline’s, either. I . . . I know Mum wasn’t very fair to her. I heard her once on the phone to your mum, and Dad tried to tell her she wasn’t being very reasonable about the fields, but she wouldn’t listen. And then after Mum died Aunty Caroline wrote me a letter trying to explain everything. But . . . I threw it away.’

  I had clenched my fists. With an effort I unclenched them again. Slowly I took Tilda’s hand, and at once sh
e seemed to gather her strength. She looked fierce and proud and unbeaten.

  ‘I love this place,’ she said. ‘But you’re my cousin. My family. Whatever happens with the farm, we’ll deal with it. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to stop all this. I won’t let everything be poisoned any more.’

  She stopped abruptly.

  ‘Matt,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I can smell burning.’

  I peered out of the window. A wisp of smoke rose upwards, filling my nostrils and making my eyes water. The living room must be on fire. I didn’t know how it had happened – maybe one of the hounds had sparks in its fur when it broke in. Maybe the gabble ratchet just destroyed everything in its path. I’d no idea. But we couldn’t stay here. We’d be burned alive.

  ‘Quick! Help me move the chest of drawers again,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get out.’

  Behind us, something growled – a low, hostile growl that made my skin go cold. We both swung round.

  Jez was standing in front of the chest. There were flecks of foam at the side of her mouth and her eyes were rolling. For a moment I couldn’t work out what was going on. Then Tilda seemed to take it in. She made a lunge towards Jez, but I grabbed her and pulled her back and held her there.

  Everything was in slow motion. I could hear my heart beating, and Tilda’s rapid shallow breathing. Jez’s body was twisting and writhing, her eyes fixed on Tilda’s in what looked like longing.

  As we watched, she seemed to grow, bigger and bigger, her delicate features blunting into something coarse and vicious. Her eyes turned from caramel to a blank cold stare. Then she was on her feet again, huge and tall and menacing. She snarled and bared her teeth at me.

  We were lost.

  ‘The window!’ Tilda yelled.

  I pulled her arm. ‘You go,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and keep her off.’

  ‘No! She won’t hurt me. She loves me. Just go!’

  There was no time to argue. I did what she said, not letting my eyes off Jez as I stepped into the frame. In the light of the flames I could see two huge hounds down on the path below. They craned their necks up and howled. I could hear more on the stairs, barking and baying. In a minute they would be here.

  I cast about desperately for a hold. There was ivy everywhere, but I didn’t dare trust it. At last I grabbed onto a drainpipe and levered myself out. Smoke filled my eyes and lungs, and I coughed and heaved. But it had to be possible. There was a narrow ridge all round the house that looked as if it might be strong enough to carry our weight. If we were very, very careful, we could make it to the front – away from the hounds.

  Jez let out a low snarl. I turned back and peered into the room. She was inching towards Tilda. Nearer and nearer. Drool dripped from her mouth.

  ‘Sit, Jez,’ Tilda was saying. Her voice was trembling. ‘Good girl. Sit. Jezebel, sit!’

  ‘Get a move on, Tilda,’ I said. ‘Now!’

  Tilda pulled herself out beside me. Her face was a mess of tears and she was spluttering in the smoke. I stared back inside, unable to tear my eyes away. Jez growled again, a deep rasp that made her whole body shake. We edged back along the ridge, clinging to the ivy, hoping to goodness it would hold.

  Suddenly Jez tensed all her muscles. She snarled again. And then she sprang towards us through the open window. I saw her claws scrabble desperately on the slate tiles, failing to find a purchase.

  And then she hurtled through the air and fell to the ground.

  The last thing I heard was Tilda’s scream.

  32

  Tilda

  I don’t know if I understand everything now, or if I ever will. Matt says that when we got down off the roof I passed out. I do remember the hounds going quiet though, just after Jez fell. According to Matt, Gabe and the kennel man came and rounded them up, only by then there wasn’t anything strange about them at all. And I remember Alba stroking my forehead down in our kitchen after Gabe had put out the fire. But she’s saying nothing.

  In front of me the sea was grey and the sky was grey and so was everything between. There’s no black and white. Everything merges, everything fades into everything else. In art class at school they teach us not to draw the edges. To look at how the light slips over solid forms and liquefies them. Who knows what’s solid anyway?

  Matt and I walked in silence along the beach. A tangled trail of debris marked the high-water line. It was bladderwrack and torn plastic beakers and the occasional strange object tossed up by the sea. A single trainer. A tiny bleached crab, belly up, its limbs hugging salt air. When I stood on a clump of seaweed, flies rose in a black cloud.

  Far off down the bay I could see a curlew standing alert, staring out towards the horizon. In my dreams I could still trace the line of its skull and weigh it in the palm of my hand.

  I nudged Matt and pointed. ‘Curlew,’ I said.

  He couldn’t spot it at first. Then he found it and half smiled. He took a picture of it, checked it had come out OK and passed the camera to me.

  ‘Not a whimbrel, then?’ he said, teasing. ‘You’re positive?’

  I shrugged, smiling back. How could I be sure of anything any more? It didn’t matter though. We don’t need to worry about curlews or geese or anything else. The evil has gone out of them. Gabe says it’s gone from Parson’s Farm now, and I want to believe him. Maybe it was never there at all. I just don’t know.

  We were lucky Gabe came to look for us that night. He’d been out on the moor trying to find us, but then he heard the hounds and came straight here. He says the fire wasn’t too bad – it never caught the rest of the house, though it’s made a horrible mess of the living room. It looked as if the hounds had already trashed it anyway. Apparently the Hunt staff had been searching for them for hours, all over the moor. They’ve taken Lightfoot and Lawless to join the pack now, and I’m glad. I don’t think I want to see them again.

  Matt ambled off down to the edge of the sea and started skimming stones into it. I watched him select them carefully, then throw a five straight off. He’s good at a lot of things, though I didn’t used to think so. He seems to be getting back to normal, too. Yesterday he was totally drained, as if the whole experience had sapped the lifeblood out of him. Today he’s acting more like a human being. But I know there are scars you can’t see. We both have them.

  I went to join Matt at the waterline. Together we scanned the horizon, the waves lapping our boots. Neither of us seemed to want to talk. It was enough to stare out to sea. But it didn’t last long. From high up on the beach there was a cry.

  ‘Matt! Tilda! Wait for me!’

  In a tumble of arms and legs, Kitty dashed across the sand towards us. Behind her was Dad, striding down to us and laughing. He caught up with Kitty, grabbed her and swung her round.

  ‘So much for keeping this one in the car so she doesn’t get cold,’ he said. ‘She’s not having any of it.’

  Kitty giggled as he put her down. ‘I’m all better now,’ she said ‘Look.’ She did a wobbly pirouette, then raced along the beach, her hair a fluffy cloud of red-gold.

  Dad rolled his eyes. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Only two days ago she was at death’s door. And now . . . I don’t know where she gets the energy.’

  Matt and I exchanged glances. We’d not told him everything. There didn’t seem any point. We weren’t going to start bringing up the gabbleratchet now. And to be honest, I think we were both more than happy to forget it.

  Aunty Caroline waved from the edge of the beach, and I waved back to her. I know that she and Dad talked about the farm when she came down here last night, and they’re going to sort something out together. The farm won’t need to be sold after all. And this morning Aunty Caroline went to see Mum’s grave, just her on her own, and when she came back I could see she’d been crying.

  She’s taking Matt to London tonight. He’s going to stay with her and Paul, though his dad arrives back from his sailing trip in a few days, so there’ll be an escape route if Matt needs it. But he’s promis
ed to come back here in the spring half term. We might go sailing together. And maybe I’ll go and visit him in the Christmas holidays. Check out London for a couple of days and see some sights. I suppose it won’t kill me to leave the farm for a bit. Perhaps even do some Christmas shopping with Aunty Caroline. Who knows?

  Dad got in step with us.

  ‘Look at your sister, Tilda,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? But I’m so sorry about Jez, sweetheart. I know you’re missing her terribly. I’ve spoken to the vet and he thinks she must have had some kind of fit, to have jumped like that. Maybe the fire drove her mad. I don’t think she suffered, though.’

  But I knew that she had.

  I blinked back the tears for about the twelfth time today and watched Kitty playing at the edge of the waves. Then I looked up at the blank grey sky.

  Way up high I thought I could see something move. A V shape, incredibly far off. Maybe I was imagining it. But I reckoned it was a skein of geese, arriving from their autumn migration. Thousands and thousands of miles, each taking turns to lead the formation while the others coasted in their slipstream. The same every year, without fail. It’s not like that for us. Matt and I don’t know what the future’s going to bring. Just that there is a future, and that Kitty’s there to enjoy it, even though my lovely Jez isn’t.

  I strained my eyes and watched until I was quite sure they were gone. Then I turned to Matt. ‘Race you to the curlew,’ I said. ‘Last one there’s a wuss.’

  And I ran off in the direction Kitty had taken without once looking behind me.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Barry Cunningham, my editor Rachel Leyshon and all at Chicken House for bringing this book into being, and to my agent, Anna Power, for her help and support.

  I’m deeply grateful to the Undiscovered Voices 2012 team at the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for noticing, publicising and anthologising the first two chapters, and to Catherine Johnson, who gave me encouragement and brilliant advice as part of the Apprenticeships in Fiction scheme and beyond. Thanks also for help and advice from AiF director Marion Urch, for comments on early drafts by Chris Waters and Clare Hawkins and for farming wisdom from Ian Forbes and Alan Hill.