The man pointed and Matt went over to the nearest computer. There was a girl clicking away with the mouse at the next desk but she ignored him. He called up a search engine, then typed in:
RAVEN’S GATE
He remembered the words scrawled on the farmer’s wall in green paint. Once again he saw the dead man, his body torn apart, his eyes wide and empty.
He pressed ENTER.
There was a brief pause and then the screen came up with a list of results. Matt saw that his search had listed over twelve thousand possible sites relating to ravens and to gates, but none of them were even slightly relevant. There was an American football team, the Baltimore Ravens, whose players had walked out of the gate. There was a Golden Gate park, also in America, where birdwatchers had spotted a variety of ravens. Apparently ravens were also nesting in the Kaleyard Gate in Chester. But there was no Raven’s Gate… Not on the first page, not on the second, not even on the third. Matt realized he would have to scroll through all twelve thousand entries. It would take him hours. There had to be another way.
He was about to give up when a pop-up window suddenly appeared on the computer screen. Matt looked at the three words, floating in the white square:
›Who are you?
There was no way of knowing who they had come from.
He didn’t quite know how to answer, so he typed back:
›Who r u?
There was a pause. Then:
›Sanjay Dravid
Matt waited a moment to see what would happen next.
›You have made an enquiry about Raven’s Gate. What is your field of research?
Field of research? Matt didn’t know how to reply. He leant forward and typed again:
›I want to know what it is.
›Who are you?
›My name is Matt.
›Matt who?
›Can you help me?
There was a long pause and Matt began to think that the person at the other end – Sanjay Dravid – had gone away. He was also puzzled. How had Dravid known that he was making the search to begin with? Had his enquiry triggered some sort of alarm on the Net?
Then the window flickered again:
›Goodbye
So that was it. Nothing more happened inside the pop-up window and after a while Matt gave up. He went back to the enquiry desk.
“Yes?” The librarian looked up from his paperback.
“Is there a newspaper office in Greater Malling?”
“A newspaper…?” He considered. “There’s the Gazette. I’d hardly call it a newspaper. They never print any news. Otherwise there’s the Yorkshire Post.”
“Where’s the Yorkshire Post?”
“It’s in York. If you want a local newspaper office, you’ll have to try the Gazette. They’re in Farrow Street. But I doubt they’ll be able to help you with any school project.”
It took Matt a moment to work out what the man was talking about. Then he remembered the lie he had told to get on to the computers. “I can try,” he said.
Farrow Street was a leftover from medieval times. It was very narrow and quiet, crammed with dustbins full of bottles and cans. As he turned off from the main road Matt thought that the librarian had made a mistake. It seemed the last sort of place you’d want a newspaper office, cut off from the rest of the town in this dirty and forgotten corner. But about halfway down he came to a row of shops. First there was an undertaker. Then a travel agency. And finally a crumbling red-brick building on three floors that advertised itself with a plastic sign next to the door: GREATER MALLING GAZETTE.
Matt entered an open-plan area with a young, frizzy haired girl sitting behind a desk, eating a sandwich, typing on a computer and talking into a headset that was plugged into her phone. She seemed to be both the receptionist and the secretary for the three journalists who were sitting at desks behind her. There were two women and a man, and Matt was struck by how bored they all looked. One of the women was yawning continuously, scratching her head and staring into space. The other woman was half-asleep. The man was fiddling with a pencil and gazing at his computer screen, as if he hoped that whatever story he was working on would write itself.
“Can I help you?” It was the receptionist who had spoken. Matt thought she was talking into the mouthpiece but then he saw that she was looking at him.
“Yeah. I want to talk to someone who knows about local affairs.”
“Do you live around here?”
“I’m staying in Lesser Malling.”
The girl leant back. “Richard!” she called. She had a nasal, rather whiny voice. “There’s someone here for you.”
The man who had been playing with the pencil looked up. “What?”
“This kid here – he wants to see you.”
“Yeah. All right.”
The man stood up and sauntered over to Matt. He was in his twenties, dressed in a striped shirt and loose, faded jeans. He had a serious, intelligent face… the sort of face Sherlock Holmes might have had when he was young. His hair was short, blond and scruffy. He hadn’t shaved for the last couple of days. Nor, from the look of it, had he changed his shirt. Everything about him was crumpled: his hair, his clothes, even the way he stood.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I need help,” Matt replied.
“What sort of help?”
“I’m trying to find out about something.”
“Why?”
“It’s for a school project.”
“What school do you go to?”
That took Matt by surprise. “I go to school in Lesser Malling,” he lied. He didn’t even know the school’s name.
“And you’re doing a school project?”
“Yes.”
“Try the library.”
“I have. They sent me here.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you.” The journalist shrugged. “I’m busy.”
“You don’t look busy,” Matt said.
“Well, I was busy until you arrived.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Busy being busy. All right?”
Matt forced himself to keep his temper. “OK, maybe I can help you,” he said. “You’re a journalist. Maybe I’ve got a story.”
“A story?”
“I might have.”
“All right. Come upstairs.”
The journalist led Matt up to the first floor and into a conference room that looked out on to Farrow Street. It wasn’t much of a room, but it was already obvious to Matt that this wasn’t much of a paper either. There were eight seats arranged around a wooden table, a presentation board and a water cooler.
“Thirsty?” the journalist asked.
