‘What happened to them?’ asked Matt.
Sus looked at him sidelong. ‘We couldn’t let them draw attention to us.’
Griskin chuckled quietly.
‘Some of the buildings caught fire,’ she continued. ‘The people who live in the neighbouring villages must have seen the smoke, but nobody sent help. I think they were glad to see Swinley burn.’
By now they had reached a small church with a square Norman tower. Sus paused before she opened the door. ‘We put the rest of them in here,’ she said. ‘It’s what we think they would have wanted.’
The sweet, thick stench of decay rolled out of the church as she opened it and led him inside, and he had to bury his nose in the crook of his elbow to keep out the worst of it. The Recklings had gathered all the corpses of the Farrow that they could find and put them here, having removed their clothes and placed them in positions of copulation as if indulging in one last and eternal orgy. The midsummer heat had not been kind to any of them. All were bloated, and many had burst, spilling their insides over each other. Flies, disturbed at their feast, swarmed up in great buzzing clouds from upturned faces and gaping jaws, while rats scuttled away under the pews.
Matt reeled from the sight and clawed his way out to the fresh air, retching.
Sus and Griskin joined him a moment later.
‘We are his children but those were his faithful,’ she said. ‘It’s different for you. If you’re going to fight for him, then fight, but don’t be surprised if this is the reward you get. That’s all I’m saying.’
Later that morning Moccus called the Recklings to him. Now that Matt saw the barn in daylight he noticed all the traps and rabbit snares hanging from the walls, and he nudged Sus. ‘Did Gar live here?’ he whispered.
Sus scowled. ‘Gar betrayed us. He helped Mother Ardwyn and the butcher steal the bone horn, and that killed this place.’
Matt shrugged. ‘He was good to me. Taught me stuff.’ He was surprised to find tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. ‘The old woman’s fucking dog chewed his throat out. I’m going to kill them both for that.’
‘Shh,’ she said. Moccus was speaking.
‘Even though the next tusk moon is some time away we must still move quickly,’ he said. ‘There is a threat to me that must be destroyed.’
‘What threatens you?’ asked Sus.
‘By now the police will have found the carnyx and the knife, and therewith the means to both bind and kill me.’ Moccus growled – it was a weak, pained sound, but they all felt it vibrate through the ground, nonetheless. ‘I will not suffer that again. I will not be their meat again. I will be a man.’
‘But the police have guns and dogs and helicopters and all that,’ Matt pointed out. ‘They’re basically an army.’
‘So are we,’ said Griskin, and there was a murmur of approval from around.
‘You are aware that you’re talking about attacking a police station, right?’ Matt protested. ‘That’s a counter-terror-level response, right there. We’re talking drones and satellites and fuck knows what else. That’s a pretty big kick-me sign on the arse for someone who says he wants to lie low for a month.’
‘Do you think that I have not had enemies in all the long centuries before?’ Moccus replied. ‘Or that this place has not learned how to hide itself from the outside world? You have been here less than a day; you know nothing. Your arguments are noted but it is my will that you do this thing. Does that suit you? Will you defy me so soon?’
Matt bit his tongue. ‘No, of course not. But how are we meant to find this horn and knife? They could be in any one of who knows how many places.’
‘Start with the police stations. You will know when you are near the carnyx – it calls to my blood and my blood will respond to it. Remember how you felt the presence of my children before you saw them?’
‘Fair enough. And transport? This lot are definitely not going to fit in my car and I’m pretty sure that the trains don’t do group saver tickets for things not of this earth.’
‘There are many farms in Swinley,’ said Sus. ‘A few of them have cattle trucks. They are old but they should still be working.’
* * *
And that was how Matt found himself driving a 1958 Leyland Comet cattle truck east along the M54 at 1 a.m., with a cargo of excitable Recklings peering out through the wooden slats of the high-sided vehicle at the lights of houses and oncoming traffic. Sus was in the passenger seat of the cab, navigating with an old-fashioned A-Z, since he didn’t want to risk the authorities being able to track his phone’s GPS.
‘This is not how I imagined my summer was going to go,’ he muttered.
* * *
The police station in Burton-on-Trent was sandwiched between the main works of Molson Coors Brewing on one side of a busy A-road and the loading and delivery yards on the other, and in between there were plenty of lay-bys and yards where a vintage cattle truck could sit unnoticed amongst all the container lorries and forklifts. Moccus had been right – Matt had felt something tugging at him as he’d driven slowly past the station house. He was just glad that it was still in the old Victorian premises rather than one of those corporate complexes on a new estate outside town where county councils
