Clough hauls Judy to her feet and they run, blindly, in the darkness. Judy has dropped her torch and has no idea which way they’re going. But Clough seems to know and that is enough for her. She runs behind him, the wind pummelling her face. Somewhere close by she can hear Len Harris staggering about. Please God, let them reach the gates before he does. It seems that God is listening; the huge gates loom up in front of them. Judy hears the gates rattle as Clough pulls at them.
‘Shit,’ she hears him say. ‘Shit.’
‘What is it?’
‘They’re locked.’
How can they be locked, thinks Judy. But Clough is pulling at her arm again. ‘Come on!’ They turn and run back towards the park and the trees and the ruins of the Smith mansion. Len Harris is nowhere to be seen. They run on, through the seemingly endless trees.
Romilly watches the Vicar carefully lift the creature from its plastic container. Terry used to be called the Vet because of his encyclopaedic knowledge of animals (and of drugs) but then the group decided that vets, though infinitely preferable to doctors, were not entirely blameless in regard to the animal kingdom. Didn’t vets attend horse races and support hunting? Well, they do round here at any rate. No one is quite sure how they came up with the priesthood instead, but it’s undoubtedly true that the name suits Terry who, in his pressed jeans and neat vnecked jumper, could be a trendy vicar on his day off. He even has little round glasses which he now takes off to rub his eyes.
‘It’s beautiful,’ says Romilly, looking at the snake in Terry’s gloved hands.
‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘
‘And it’s properly poisonous?’
‘It’s not aggressive,’ says Terry, ‘but it’s poisonous all right. Could give someone a pretty nasty bite.’
Gently, Terry takes a padded envelope and places the snake inside. The parcel bugles obscenely.
‘That won’t hurt it,’ asks Romilly, ‘being wrapped up like that?’
Terry shakes his head. ‘They can survive for up to three days without food.’
‘Whose name is on the envelope?’
‘Michael Malone. He’s a lab technician. I got him from the website.’
The name means nothing to Romilly. She nods approvingly. A properly addressed parcel is more likely to reach its target. The plan is to drop the parcel through the door of the science block at midnight. They’ll be seen on CCTV but so much the better. They’ll be wearing masks and ski-jackets with ‘Animal Action’ written on the back. Romilly designed them herself.
‘My husband was terrified of snakes,’ she says now.
‘Lots of people are,’ says Terry, carefully sealing the envelope.
‘Could it kill someone?’ she asks.
Terry looks at her. ‘Are you hoping someone will die?’
‘Of course not! We just want to make our point.’
‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘It could kill someone.’
Ruth feels Cathbad’s pulse. It’s very slow. Should she call a doctor? What about Cameron next door? Surely he and his public school chums know a few things about drugs. Ruth goes to the window. In the back garden the fire is still smouldering, an eerie orange glow in the darkness. She looks again, pressing her face against the glass. Someone is standing in her garden, looking down at the embers. A tall figure wearing a cloak and carrying a long staff. The figure moves and seems almost to vanish into the blackness, cloak swirling in the wind, covering its face. Ruth’s blood runs cold. It’s Bob Woonunga.
Judy and Clough run wildly, falling over branches, slipping on wet leaves. Judy has no idea where they are heading. She fixes her eyes on Clough’s black jacket with its reassuring reflective stripe. She falls and twists her ankle but Clough doesn’t look round. ‘Come on!’ he shouts. She hobbles after him. How big can the grounds be? Surely they should have reached a road or a track by now? Somewhere nearby there is a splintering crack like a tree falling. It’s crazy to be in the woods in the middle of the storm. But then the whole thing’s crazy, and somewhere, not far away, there’s a man with a gun. She stumbles on, a stitch burning in her side. She’s not sure if she can go on much longer.
Then, suddenly, the black jacket disappears. Where the hell is Clough? She stops, hearing her gasping breath even above the noise of the wind. She takes a few steps forward and then she’s falling, going head-over-heels in a chaos of loose stones and broken branches.
‘Come on Johnson,’ yells a familiar voice. ‘Get up.’ Judy lies on the ground, panting. She knows Clough saved her life and she’ll be forever grateful but, right now, she almost hates him. ‘Where are we?’ she says.
‘I think we’re on the racing track,’ says Clough. Judy realises that she’s lying on something soft. The all- weather track. And, very far off, she can see some lights.
‘Come on,’ says Clough again and, like two exhausted horses, they set off along the all-weather track. Behind them, the wind roars through the trees.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Nelson again.
‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad again. He hums quietly to himself. Everything remains the same: sky, sea, beach. Is this a dream? wonders Nelson. But he can feel the stones beneath his feet, smell the sea, even the faint herbal scent emanating from Cathbad.
‘The flow,’ Cathbad is saying. ‘You have to trust to the flow.’
But Nelson has never been one to trust what he can’t see. He trudges along the beach, looking for a way out.
Bob is walking round the bonfire, occasionally raising his stick to the skies. What is he doing? Is he ill-wishing Cathbad? Is he pointing the bone? Or is he trying to save him? What about Nelson? Is Bob too trying to enter the Dreaming? Will he fight with Cathbad over Nelson’s lifeless body? It’s all nonsense, Ruth knows, but, somehow, here in the darkness with the wind roaring around the house, it doesn’t seem like nonsense.
Bob stops and looks up at the house. Ruth doesn’t know how visible she is, standing in the dark bedroom. She shrinks back against the wall. Bob continues his pacing, moving in and out of the light. Then he stops and is looking at something on the ground. What is it? Ruth presses her face against the window again. Oh God, it’s Flint. The ginger cat has appeared from nowhere and is rubbing around Bob’s ankles. Get away from him, Flint! She sends up a prayer to Mother Julian and her cat. Protect Flint. Don’t let him become one of Bob’s sinister Dreamtime creatures.
Cathbad stirs in his sleep. This is all your fault, Ruth wants to tell him. I should be sleeping peacefully with my baby in her cot and my cat on my feet. Instead she has entered some ghastly dream world where snakes and sacred animals prowl in the darkness and two of Ruth’s best friends lie between life and death. She crosses the landing to check on Kate. As she does so, she hears a noise downstairs. What is it? Has Bob broken in? Did Cathbad even lock the door? She stands frozen, prepared to defend her baby with her life. Cathbad will have to fend for himself. Then thunderous paws sound on the stairs and a reproachful meow greets her. Thank God. It was only Flint coming through the cat flap. Ruth picks up her cat and hugs him tightly.
The lights are getting brighter now. Judy can see the walls of the yard, the house rising up in the distance. Thank God. They’ve made it. Her ankle hurts, she’s wet through and she feels as if her heart is about to explode, but she’s curiously elated. They’ve made it through the dark woods and there, a few yards away, is shelter, a telephone, backup. The wind is still roaring but the rain seems to have stopped. She’s just about to turn to Clough to congratulate him, thank him, when the most terrifying noise fills the night. A kind of drawn-out moan, guttural and agonised. Judy stops, petrified. She hadn’t thought it possible to be any more frightened but now she feels as if her hair is standing straight up on end.
‘What the hell was that?’ she whispers.
‘Sounds like a donkey,’ says Clough briskly.
‘A donkey?’
‘Yeah, a donkey braying. Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.’
Why would there be a donkey at a racing stables, thinks Judy, but she jogs to keep up with Clough. She’s not about to let him out of her sight for a second. They are near the stable wall now and she can see the clock tower and the horse walker, monstrous in the moonlight. The light is coming from the cottage by the main gates.
‘Caroline’s cottage,’ pants Judy.
‘She’s a mate of Trace’s,’ says Clough. ‘She’ll help us.’
