The man’s smile widened.
“Just do as I say, lad.”
“They’ll come.”
It was three whole days before they came.
In that time, Michael had had four more baths—the smell of the prison cupboard seemed to hang around him—and he had slept in an old-fashioned room with big windows, filled with a blank, white autumnal sky. At night he kept the light on and slipped out of bed repeatedly to check that the door hadn’t been locked. He couldn’t keep it open, because he could see a sliver of stairs beyond it. During the day he had been allowed to wander the house, feet moving silently out of habit, and he quickly realized that the man was alone here, apart from the dog, and that the rooms seemed endless. Some of them were locked, which gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but Michael put his back to those doors and headed elsewhere. Sometimes, he would catch the big black dog watching him, an indistinct shape at the top of stairs or across the landing, and he would beckon to it, but the dog did nothing but grin wetly at him.
When they came, Michael was in the room where he slept, his hands full of a pack of cards the man had given him. There was a crunch of boots against gravel and he knew, he knew immediately who it would be, and for a few dangerous seconds his eyelids flickered and his fingers went numb, suddenly close to passing out. But a sharp bark from the dog somewhere in the house acted like a slap, and instead he scrambled over to the window. A doorbell rang.
His father, a bow-legged man with thinning black hair, was standing in front of the porch, but he was alone; no red coat against the gravel, no sharp white fingers. His sister wasn’t here. Michael leaned heavily against the sill, briefly too relieved to think or move, even though he knew that if his father spotted him in the window he would be dead. And then his father vanished from view, and a door slammed.
There was some shouting. Michael thought of his mother’s body. They had left it in the lively grass, and he imagined her eyes filling up with rain water, slugs tracing their delicate dance across her yellow smock. Eventually, he became aware that the voices had grown quieter, and without thinking too closely about what he was doing, he crept out onto the landing and peered down through the bannister struts. There was the man, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were admiring a painting, and there was his father. He was wearing a dirty blue rain mac, and he looked strangely small.
Snatches of conversation drifted up the staircase toward him. You know as well as I do, and, sordid business, and better left unsaid.
Michael thought of other words: beast, dirty beast, animal, but when he looked up he saw that the dog was there, watching him.
Eventually the door slammed again, and when he looked back his father was gone. The man spoke without moving, knowing somehow that Michael would hear.
“You don’t have anything to worry about now, little wolf.”
CHAPTER8
WHEN HEATHER STEPPED through into Nikki’s living room, she was pleased to see several bookcases rammed with books and a television so enormous it dominated one wall. The décor was soothing and pleasant and clearly chosen by someone without much interest in interior decorating. Heather paused by one small cabinet, smiling.
“I remember these from your mum’s house. Is it genetic or something?”
Nikki grimaced. The cabinet contained a little collection of pastel colored ceramic figures, including swans, shepherds, milk maids, and ladies with frothing dresses.
“Don’t. Mum buys me a new one for every birthday and every Christmas. I don’t know what to do with them. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Go on then.” She followed Nikki into the long kitchen at the back of the house, which smelled pleasingly of some recent spicy dinner. “How was school?”
“Fine, the usual dramas.” She was pouring hot water over teabags, fragrant steam filling the kitchen. “Are you ok? You sounded weird on the phone.”
Heather opened her satchel and pulled out the biscuit tin. Now that she knew what was inside, it felt heavier, like she was carrying around a severed head rather than a bunch of letters. She opened the lid, already looking at the scrabbly handwriting with a sense of dread.
“I found these letters in Mum’s attic, under a pile of old records.”
“Letters? What sort of letters?”
“Well, I … Maybe it’s better if you just have a look.”
Nikki took the proffered bundle and began reading. Heather watched her face. As Nikki’s brows drew together in an expression of confusion, Heather got up and finished making the tea. When she came back to where Nikki stood at the worktop, her friend was holding the paper in her hand as if it might bite her.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Heather half laughed, although she felt very far from amused. “I know, right? I might have been a bit out of touch with my mum over the last few years, but this? This is a bit of a shock.”
“Michael Reave. The Red Wolf.” Nikki was shaking her head slightly, as though to clear it. “Heather, have you not heard the news?”
“No? What do you mean?” Heather blinked. Normally she was all over the news—since she laughingly still liked to refer to herself as a journalist, she took it as part of her job to keep up with current events—but for the last couple of days she had been, she realized now, avoiding the world. Listening to her mum’s old CDs, watching old movies. It was easier to do with no Internet in the house.
Nikki put the letters down and went back into the living room. She returned with a newspaper, which she held out to Heather. The headline read “THE RED
