‘So what’s this place of yours like then, Wayne? Give us the picture.’
Wayne had sunk into himself, and took a moment to answer.
‘It’s small-living room, kitchen, two bedrooms. Stone walls, with a slate roof, couple of hundred years old.’
‘Nice. Got a view, has it?’
‘Yes. It looks out to Moel Fammau.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘It’s a mountain, the highest point in the Clwydian Range. From the top you can see Snowdon.’
‘So it’s wild country? Neighbours?’
‘Not really. A couple of farms about a quarter mile in each direction along the lane. The village is half a mile away, down in the valley.’
‘Much traffic on the lane?’
‘None. It isn’t made up and doesn’t lead anywhere. It stops at the last farm, at the top of the hill.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ Mark said, but didn’t say what for.
Wayne glanced back over his shoulder at Kathy and she understood the message in his eyes. She was the professional, wasn’t she? This was what she had been trained for. Why didn’t she do something? But she knew there was little she could do. The Roaches were watchful, and they had done this sort of thing before. Wayne and Kathy were following in the footsteps of the Brown Bread victims.
The traffic grew heavy around Birmingham, and several times the motorway came to a total stop. Mark began to drum his fingers impatiently, and Kathy recalled Wayne’s comment to Brock about getting there before dark. With any luck, Brock would have left before they arrived.
‘How long’s this going to take?’ Ricky said. It was the first time anyone had asked, and when Wayne said, ‘Another two or three hours,’ Ricky said,‘Fuck!’ with disgusted surprise, as if he’d imagined the rest of the UK as a narrow fringe just beyond the London boundary. Maybe they flew everywhere.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ricky said.‘When are we getting lunch?’
Another echo of childhood, her final car journey doomed to be a dark reflection of her first.
‘Let’s stop at the next service station for a burger,’ Ricky said.
Good idea, Kathy thought. She saw Wayne stir hopefully.
‘No way. We keep going,’ Mark said, but he was wrong, for his father made a rare sound. ‘I’ll need to pay a visit, son, and get a drink for my pills.’
Mark grunted reluctantly.‘Okay, Dad. There’s a place coming up soon, if this fucking traffic would get a move on.’
They turned into the Birmingham North service area, and as soon as the car slowed to a crawl in the car park,Wayne Ferguson slipped his seatbelt, yanked at the door handle and threw himself against the door. Nothing happened. Mark laughed. He pulled to a stop.
‘Child-proof locks, old chum.’ He pulled the gun out of his pocket and pressed it into the other man’s side. Ricky did the same with Kathy.
‘Okay, Dad?’ Mark said, and released the locks. The old man got out stiffly and hobbled off, and the locks clicked again.
‘Actually,I need the toilet too,’Kathy said.‘Urgently.’
‘Shut up,’ Ricky hissed, as if he was desperate for an excuse to do something violent. Kathy shut up.
Spider returned, got back into the car and handed chocolate bars and bottles of juice to his sons. They set off again, and as they moved north of the Black Country they came upon the first dustings of white over the fields on either side. By Newcastleunder-Lyme it was thick all around, great banks of brown snow piled on the motorway verges, and in the fields beyond black tree skeletons stood stark against dazzling white beneath a dull grey shroud of sky. It looked as if the falls had been very recent, and slush and grit was sprayed over them by the traffic they overtook as they sped up the outside lane.
‘When do we turn off?’ Mark demanded, and Wayne said, ‘Best to keep going until we reach the M56. That’s the quickest way.’
Slowly, imperceptibly, the sky was getting darker, though whether this was due to bad weather ahead or the approach of evening was hard to tell. Everyone had headlights on.
They reached the complicated spaghetti of the M56 junction at last, and turned westward, across the lowlands of the Mersey and Dee estuaries, skirting Chester, and then leaving the dual highways for a quieter country of bilingual signs and odd-sounding places- Gwernymynydd, Nercwys and Pant-y-mwyn. An ambulance coming the other way carried the slogan AMBIWLANS, and Mark snorted,‘Can’t they fucking spell up here?’ Nobody laughed. He lit another cigarette, cracking his window open a fraction to let out the smoke.
Wayne directed them onto ever-narrower roads, until at last they saw the dark spike of a church spire up ahead, and beyond it a tiny pub and a corner store.
‘This is the village,’ he said. He was looking anxiously at the heavily laden white roofs and hedgerows.‘They’ve had fresh snow. Lots, by the look of it.’
They slowed to a crawl until Wayne pointed to a break in the bank on the left.‘That’s the lane.’
‘Blimey, just as well we got four-wheel drive.’
Which Brock didn’t, Kathy thought in despair. In their headlights the lane climbed steeply up the hillside,hard to make out among the rolling white mounds of undisturbed snow. Nothing had been up or down this way since the last snowfall. Mark was swearing as he pushed the pitching vehicle through the drifts, trying to keep the momentum, speeding up over a sheltered stretch in the lee of a tall bank, then plunging into deep snow on the far side. They came upon a car abandoned beneath a tree, roof covered with snow,and Kathy recognised it as Brock’s.The lane got steeper, the snow deeper, and finally the front of the Merc lurched alarmingly up into space and came crashing down into a deep drift and stalled. Ahead of them, through the frantically thumping wipers, they could see a cottage, snuggling into the white folds of the hillside, flickering orange lights glowing from its two front windows like eyes,a pale column of smoke rising from its chimney. Beyond it,a dark ridge of woods was almost indistinguishable in the gloom of twilight.
‘There it is,’Wayne said, in a flat voice.
‘Right. In we go then.You two lead the way, and don’t try anything ’cos we’re right behind you.You want to stay here, Dad?’
‘No way,’ Spider growled.‘I’ve got to be there.’
The sudden shock of cold air stung their faces as they heaved the doors open against the snow. As she slid across the seat, Kathy reached into her pocket for her wallet, which she tucked into a corner of the upholstery. Then they were out in the snow, struggling in it up to their hips.Wayne, still in his site boots, was the only one remotely dressed for this,and they heaved and swore until they managed to clamber through to the shallower snow beyond the drift. The path to the front door gradually became easier, and they could make out signs of snow having been cleared around the cottage, and of human tracks leading to the back. There was some kind of outbuilding, and a mound of snow beneath which the wheel of another vehicle was visible.
They trudged forward, the smell of wood smoke in their lungs, their panting breath forming clouds. As they approached the door, solid braced timber with iron bolts, it swung open, and for a moment the scene froze in the light spilling out of the room as Michael Grant took in the group in front of him. Then Wayne started forward at a run, as if to get into the shelter of the cottage. There was a sharp bang, and he staggered and fell forward into his friend’s arms. Mark shoved his way in after them, pushing them aside, while Ricky jabbed Kathy forward into the doorway. Ahead of her she could see Mark peering through a door on the far side of the room, waving his gun.
‘Where’s Brock?’ he was yelling.‘Where the fuck is Brock?’
Michael Grant was kneeling on the floor, Wayne prone in his arms, while Jennifer Grant sat stunned in an armchair beside the fire, eyes wide with fright. Mark marched across to her and pointed the gun at her head and bellowed at her husband.
‘Pay attention! Where is Brock? Tell me or I’ll blow her fucking head off!’
Michael looked confused. He seemed transfixed by the blood on his hands, oozing over his jeans. He blinked rapidly, looking up and seeing the terror in his wife’s eyes.
