L
Sleet hit the side of the dune, lodging in the crevices of sand, standing a moment, half snow, half ice, then melting into the cracks and crannies. A further lump of sand fell away, and behind it the black peat, spongy, sweet, no longer encased in its jacket of airtight clay and meeting daylight for the first time in nearly two thousand years, began to wash in a black streak down the face of the excavation.
Deep down the great golden torc, symbol of Nion’s royal blood, settled further into the subsoil. Torn from its silver companion by its weight and accepted by whichever gods there were in that black underworld, it would never again see the light of the sun.
Far above, the sea was meek, restless, the waves brown from the sandbanks which the storm had chewed over and rearranged in the night. Overhead a skein of geese, flying low and fast, sent their ringing bugle cries out into the wind where they were lost.
Another high tide, another storm and the dune would be gone, the peat and the clay mingling in the churning depths of the North Sea, its secret hidden forever. Another slice of soft black soil peeled off and slid away and the air, corroding, acid, insidious, touched the arm which lay there cushioned on what had once been a raft of flowering rushes. Around the humerus, loose where once it had clung tightly, lay the twisted semi-circle of a priestly arm- ring.
‘Come on, through here.’ Patrick turned and gave Kate his hand. They were both panting now, exhausted from the scramble through the tangled, wet undergrowth.
‘You are sure you know where this short cut goes?’ Kate climbed after him, hearing her jacket rip once again on a trailing bramble as she levered herself up the slippery bank to stand beside him in a clearing.
‘Of course. Greg and I used to come this way all the time. It doesn’t go anywhere near the lane; it cuts off the whole corner and comes out just below the Farnboroughs’ place.’ Patrick looked round. It was quite dark in the clearing; the trees, glistening with sleet, hung low above their heads and they could hear the hiss of rain on the leaves of a holm oak. The air smelled of wet earth and beech mast and rotting leaves.
Kate shivered. She glanced at Patrick again. He had slung the gun across his back; in his hand was a stout staff which he had pulled from a thicket as they dived into the woods. Both gave her comfort. She glanced behind her again. Not for the first time she had the feeling that they were being watched. Her fist tightened on her own stick. Not as long as Paddy’s, but just as sturdy, she held it in front of her as she looked from side to side into the shadows.
Patrick saw her glance. ‘There’s no one around.’ He did not sound very confident. ‘If there were we’d hear the birds go up. Pheasants. Pigeon. They make a hell of a din if they are disturbed – you heard when we set them off. And there are magpies down here. They would all let us know if there was anyone around – or anything.’
She nodded. ‘I wish we had a dog with us all the same.’
Patrick nodded. He grinned. ‘A detachment of paras wouldn’t go amiss either. Come on. It can’t be much further. Once we’re on the road we’ll feel better.’
So, he was feeling it too. Kate looked behind her again. There was no sign of the way they had come. The tangle of brambles and dead brown grasses and nettles had closed without leaving any sign of where they had forced their way through. She felt a moment of panic. ‘Which way?’
‘Upwards. The road is quite a lot higher than Redall. It’s uphill all the way, I’m afraid. We’re bound to hit the road somewhere between Welsly Cross and the Farnboroughs’. We can’t get lost.’
‘No?’ she grinned wanly. ‘I hope those aren’t famous last words.’
He was about to set off again when he stopped. He gave her a long look, his thin face drooping with exhaustion. ‘You look absolutely whacked.’
She smiled. ‘So do you.’
‘It will all be over soon, won’t it?’
‘Of course it will.’ Trying to reassure him did nothing for her own confidence. She glanced up at the sky. Where she could see it, between the interlaced branches of the thicket, it was growing increasingly black. ‘We ought to get on.’
‘I know. It was an excuse to get my breath back.’ He hitched the gun higher onto his shoulder then he turned and led the way with more bravado than confidence up the high slippery bank which led out of the thicket and, he hoped, towards the north.
Ten minutes later he stopped. ‘There ought to be some kind of path. But I suppose it could be overgrown.’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Have you got a compass?’ It was the sort of thing all boys in the country festooned themselves with as far as she could remember.
He shook his head. ‘I know this path like the back of my hand.’
She refrained from comment.
He bit his lip. ‘It’s getting so dark.’
‘I know. There’s more snow on the way. You can smell it.’
He smiled. ‘And to think Greg thought you were Lady Muck from the town. You know more about the country than he does in many ways.’
‘I can believe it -’ She broke off as she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun round, staring into the shadows of the trees. ‘What was that?’ she whispered.
‘Where?’ He swung the gun off his shoulder.
‘I thought I saw something move.’
They stared in silence for a moment, side by side.
‘Probably a rabbit or a deer,’ Patrick said softly.
He slipped the safety catch off the gun with a barely perceptible click.
She strained her eyes into the distance, trying to penetrate the murky depths of the scrub. There it was again, a shadow against the shadows, upright. Human. ‘There.’ Her whisper was scarcely audible. Inside her warm jacket she could feel her skin growing cold. ‘There is someone there.’
‘What shall we do?’ Patrick’s voice rose in panic and she was reminded suddenly that he was only a schoolboy and that he was probably far more scared than she was. If that were possible.
‘I don’t know. He must have seen us.’
‘Do you think he’s got a gun?’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. We’d know by now.’
‘Shall I shoot at him; try and scare him off?’
‘I don’t know.’ She had started to shake again. ‘Supposing it makes him angry?’
‘If it does and he comes at us, at least we’ll see who he is. And I can shoot him for real.’ She saw Patrick’s finger curling round the trigger.
She had only taken her eyes off the shadow for a second. Now as she looked back it had moved closer. It was tall; dark. To her horror she saw that it was moving quite swiftly, seeming to have no problem with the rough, tangled undergrowth. ‘Yes. Go on, shoot.’ She could hear her voice shaking with fear.
The report from the gun was colossal. It reverberated through the woods, echoing from the trees, temporarily deafening her. A pheasant rose shrieking into the sky, followed by a pair of pigeons, their wings smacking loudly. Patrick lowered the gun cautiously, feeling in his pocket for his cartridges. ‘Where is he now? Did I hit him?’ To his chagrin he didn’t know whether or not he had aimed at the shadowy figure. He had been too frightened to think.
‘I can’t see.’ She stared into the trees, forcing her eyes to focus into the darkest corners. There was nothing there.
With shaking hands Patrick reloaded the gun. ‘If I’ve killed someone I’ll go to prison.’
‘Not if he murdered Bill, you won’t.’ She touched his shoulder reassuringly. ‘I don’t know if it was anyone. It could have been a shadow.’
‘Should we check?’
She hesitated then she shook her head. ‘Let’s get onto the road and fetch the police. They can look.’
