Part 9 (2/2)

Whatever had happened had happened quickly, and seemed to have left behind little or no evidence. She considered investigating further, but the thought of running into Bob Matson again sent a chill down her spine.

Best wait until morning when the Doctor would doubtless have formulated a plan of attack. She glanced at her watch.

It really was very late. Where was he?

Ace locked the door and climbed back into bed, pulling the sheets around her, despite the humidity. She fell into troubled sleep, and dreamed she could still hear the screams.

Billy Tyley was being reborn. Like a plant seed, he was sending out roots and leaves, searching for light and moisture. Or... Was the vegetation rooting into him, clearing out the deadwood? Twigs pushed their way into his arms - what used to be his arms - and sent tendrils into the corpse that was no longer his. He was becoming one with something he recognised, something that had always lived within him.

Shooting. Branching. Searching for a new purity, a new way of living.

He was Jack's, and Jack was his.

The crunch of gravel underfoot sounded like a thousand marching soldiers. Matthew Hatch reached the door of his parents' home and fumbled in the pocket of his suit for the key. They would be enjoying their regular summer trip to Rimini now and the house would be deserted. Perhaps Mrs Barnwell, the cook, would have left a light supper for him in the kitchen, just as she had in the past. Hatch remembered arriving back from university at obscure hours of the morning and finding a little note to 'Master Matthew' folded neatly under a large plate of ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

Music was coming from the drawing room. Hatch moved cautiously to the door, one hand gripping the frame, the other searching his jacket pocket for the handgun Trevor Winstone had given him six months ago at a clandestine meeting in a smoky room in South Kensington.

As Hatch s.h.i.+fted his weight the floorboard beneath him squeaked in protest.

'Come in.' The husky female voice cut through the industrial sounds of the band Stillborn on his parents' CD player. The record clearly did not belong to them.

'Nice tune,' he said, strolling into the room, 'but haven't you brought along any Jesus and Mary Chain? You know I can't stand anything post-1990.'

Rebecca Baber lay on a blue velvet couch, naked but for a bright plastic watch and a pair of spectacles. She peered over the tiny round lenses at Hatch, dropping the thin paperback she was reading to the floor.

'I've been here for ages ages,' she said coyly. 'I thought you were never going to come.'

'I had business to attend to,' replied Hatch, moving over to the CD player and turning it off. 'I'm a busy man,' he announced, with just a hint of self-mockery.

'And a grumpy one,' said Rebecca, strolling over to his side and running a hand down Hatch's cheek. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing that can't be dealt with,' he said. 'I know how to deal with things. Dealing with things is my job.'

Rebecca closed her eyes as Hatch pulled her closer.

'I think we'd better adjourn the meeting in favour of some informal interaction behind closed doors,' he whispered, his lips just brus.h.i.+ng her ear. 'What do you think?'

'Anything you say, Minister,' said Rebecca, walking nonchalantly past him and towards the stairs. 'Will sir be requiring minutes to be taken?'

'Get up those stairs!' said Hatch with an animal grin.

Ace was woken by blinding suns.h.i.+ne, church bells and birdsong. So much for the peace and tranquillity of the countryside.

'Shut up,' she said.

She waited for her mind to sort fogged images and memories into order. Rebecca had left the pub... A teacher, she had said, but you couldn't hold that against her... Then the note had been pa.s.sed to Joanna, and some lad had tried to chat her up, and she'd said, 'If you don't get your hand off my leg, Worzel, I'll shove your brand-new combine harvester so far up your a.r.s.e you'll have to use the windscreen wipers to brush your teeth.' Then a drunken collapse into bed, and... Sleep. And screams.

Ace sat bolt upright. The Doctor still hadn't returned, and the screams had been real.

She ran to the window, and pulled back the curtains. She remembered having gone to the window in the night, although the recollection was blurred by sleep.

The green extended from the front of the pub to the edge of the lane that most of the cottages were cl.u.s.tered around. It was lush, despite the dry weather, and billiard-table-flat.

Ace peered more closely. Right at its centre, like some childish stick drawing, lay a humanoid shape. It was made of threads of brown and yellow, clumsily clothed in what appeared to be striped pyjamas. The face was a grotesque parody of human features, all skewed by rough branches and knotted stalks of corn.

Ropes held the scarecrow's arms and legs on to the green, running to hastily banged-in stakes. A single torch had been dropped some feet away.

Ace scratched her head as she began to get dressed. That was some initiation ceremony.

Hatch rolled over in bed expecting to feel the warmth of Rebecca. Instead, he found a cold, empty s.p.a.ce. He opened his eyes, and saw Rebecca standing in one of his mother's dressing gowns, looking out of the window, across the village.

'Morning,' said Hatch sleepily, flopping back on to the pillow.

'You hurt me last night,' said Rebecca, still looking out of the window.

'You didn't complain at the time,' noted Hatch, closing his eyes again.

Rebecca turned, her eyes puffy and red. 'You treat everybody like something you sc.r.a.pe off your shoe, Matthew.'

'Most people are,' said Hatch.

A momentary silence settled between them before Rebecca came back to the bed and sat on the corner, putting a hand on Hatch's bare arm. 'Matthew,' she asked in a hushed whisper, 'did you hear the screaming last night?'

'Yes.' Hatch smiled, though his eyes were still shut. 'That was you, wasn't it?'

She ignored his remark. 'It was the Chosen.'

'Rubbish,' said Hatch with a dismissive grunt, turning away from her.

'No, it isn't,' said Rebecca, returning to the window. 'I heard the Chosen screaming in the night when I was five. She screamed until I thought the devil himself would come and take us away. I've hated the night ever since.'

She turned back to Hatch again, but he was asleep, snoring soundly into his pillow.

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