Part 18 (1/2)

”I heard them picking at the putty,” he said. ”Robbers would just smash the window. Least, they do in The Bill The Bill. And there's nothing else making a noise, like the fox in the woods. I always hear the fox before I go to sleep, but 1 haven't heard it tonight. Dad!”

His father turned and stared at him, his face unreadable.

”Did you shoot someone, Dad?”

His father shook his head. He began to smile as he pulled Jack's face into his neck, but the expression was grotesque, like one of those old gargoyles Jack had seen on churches when they were in France last year. ”Of course not, Jack. I fired into the air.”

But he had not fired into the air, Jack knew. He had leaned out and aimed down. Jack could not help imagining something squirming on the ground even now, its blood running into the gravel alongside the house, screams of pain impossible because it had no jaw left to open- ”Come on,” his dad said, ”our room for now, son.”

”Didn't you try the mobile?” Jack asked suddenly, but the look on his mother's face made him wish he hadn't.

”That's not working at all.”

”I expect the batteries have run out,” he said wisely.

”I expect.”

His father carried him across the creaking landing and into their bedroom, a place of comfort. He dropped him gently onto the bed, and as he stood the telephone on the bedside table rang.

”I'll get it!” Jack shouted, leaping across the bed.

”Son-”

He answered in the polite manner he had been taught: ”h.e.l.lo, Jack Haines, how may I help you?” It's the middle of the night It's the middle of the night, he thought. Who rings in the middle of the night? What am I going to hear? Do I really want to hear it, whatever it is Who rings in the middle of the night? What am I going to hear? Do I really want to hear it, whatever it is?

”Hey, Jackie,” a voice said, masked with crackles and pauses and strange, electronic groans. ”Jackie... the town... dangerous... get to Tewton... Jackie? Jackie? Ja...?”

”Mandy,” he said, talking both to her and his parents. ”It's Mandy!”

His mother took the receiver from his hand. ”Mandy? You there?” She held it to her ear for a few seconds, then glanced at Jack. ”No one there,” she said. ”Line's dead. It did that earlier.” She turned to his dad and offered the receiver, but he moved to the window and shaded his eyes so he could see out.

”She said we should go to Tewton,” Jack said, trying to recall her exact words, afraid that if he did he would also remember the strange way she had spoken. Mandy never called him Jackie. ”She said it was safe there.”

”It's safe here,” his dad said without turning around. He was holding the shotgun again and Jack wanted to believe him, wanted to feel secure.

His mum stood and moved to the window. ”What's that?” Jack heard her mutter.

”Fire.”

”A fire?”

His father turned and tried to smile, but it seemed to hurt. ”A bonfire,” he said, ”over on the other side of the valley.”

”At night? A bonfire in the middle of the night?” Jack asked.

His parents said nothing. His mother came back to the bed and held him, and his father remained at the window.

”It was was Mandy,” Jack said. Mandy,” Jack said.

His mother shrugged. ”I didn't hear anyone.”

He tried to move away from her, but she held him tight, and he thought it was for her own comfort as much as his. He didn't like how his mum and dad sometimes talked about Mandy. He liked even less the way they often seemed to forget about her. He was old enough to know some stuff had happened-he could remember the shouting, the screaming on the last day Mandy had been with them-but he was not really old enough to realize exactly what.

It was so quiet that Jack could hear his father's throat clicking as he breathed.

They stayed that way until morning.

”There are secrets in the night,” Mandy once told him. She was sitting next to his bed, looking after him because he'd been lost in the woods. He usually liked it when Mandy talked to him, told him things, but today even she could not cheer him up. She and his parents were hardly speaking, and when they did it was to exchange nothing but nastiness Mandy once told him. She was sitting next to his bed, looking after him because he'd been lost in the woods. He usually liked it when Mandy talked to him, told him things, but today even she could not cheer him up. She and his parents were hardly speaking, and when they did it was to exchange nothing but nastiness.

”What do you mean?”

She smiled. ”You know, Jack. Secrets. You lie awake sometimes, listening for them. Don't you? I know I I do do.”

”I just like listening,” he said, but he guessed she was right. He guessed there was more going on than most people knew, and he wanted to find out what he said, but he guessed she was right. He guessed there was more going on than most people knew, and he wanted to find out what.

”If you find a secret, sometimes it's best to keep it to yourself. Not to tell Mum and Dad.”

Jack was subtly shocked at her words. Why keep something from Mum and Dad? Wasn't that lying? But Mandy answered for him.

”Sometimes, grown-ups don't understand their kid's secret. And I'll tell you one now.”

He sat up in bed, all wide-eyed and snotty-nosed. He wondered why Mandy was crying.

”I'm leaving home. At the weekend. Going to live in Tewton. But Jack, please, don't tell Mum and Dad until I'm gone.”

Jack blinked as tears stung his eyes. Mandy hugged him and kissed his cheeks.

He didn't want his sister to go. But he listened to what she said, and he did not tell their parents the secret.

Three days later, Mandy left home.

In the morning Jack went to fetch the milk, but the milkman hadn't been there. His father appeared behind him in the doorway, scowling out at the sunlight and the dew steaming slowly from the ground, hands resting lightly on his son's shoulders.

Something had been playing on Jack's mind all night, ever since it happened. An image had seeded there, grown and expanded and, in the silence of his parents' bedroom where none of them had slept, it had blossomed into an all-too-plausible truth. Now, with morning providing an air of normality-though it remained quieter than usual, and stiller-he was certain of what he would find. He did not want want to find it, that was for sure, yet he had to see. to find it, that was for sure, yet he had to see.

He darted away from the back door and was already at the corner of the house before his dad called after him. The shout almost stopped him in his tracks because there was an unbridled panic there, a desperation... but then he was looking around the side of the cottage at something he had least expected.

There was no body, no blood, no disturbed flower bed where someone had thrashed around in pain. He crunched along the gravel path, his father with him now, standing guard above and behind.

”You didn't didn't shoot anyone,” Jack said, and the sense of relief was vast. shoot anyone,” Jack said, and the sense of relief was vast.

Then he saw the rosebush.

The petals had been stripped, and they lay scattered on the ground alongside other things. There were bits of clothing there, and grimy white shards of harder stuff, and clumps of something else. There was also a watch.

”Dad, whose watch is that?” Jack could not figure out what he was seeing. If that was bone, where was the blood? Why was there a watch lying in their garden, its face shattered, hands frozen at some cataclysmic hour? And those dried things, tattered and ragged around the edges, like shriveled steak...

”Gray!” his mother called from the back door. ”Where are you? Gray! There's someone coming down the hill.”

”Come on,” Jack's dad said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the back door.