Guy Smith - The Lurkers

An engine shunted along the empty track, then the road was clear again. He accelerated, noting that the car should have picked up quicker than it did but it was difficult to be sure in a line of traffic. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry and the continual oncoming traffic made overtaking impossible.

At last he was back on the B-road. A dawdling battered Diane in front which the Saab should have left for dead, it struggled to pass, then had to fight its way back in. With a clatter of annoyance, the Citroen's driver established his lead again.

Peter knew that the Saab's engine was going to cut out before long. The power was fading, the cylinders chugging sluggishly. Maybe he should have reversed, gone back into Llanrhayader and found a garage.

Instead he kept going, hoping that whatever was blocked might clear itself. His knowledge of motor mechanics was slight and he feared to pull on to the verge in case he was unable to get going again.

Eight miles or so out of Llanrhayader he had no choice other than to cruise gently on to the side as with a final splutter the engine cut out. He glanced at the temperature gauge; the needle was touching the red sector. For fuck's sake, he'd only had the car serviced a week ago!

He got out, lifted the bonnet and stared uncomprehend-ingly into the well of wires and plugs and things beyond his ken. Maybe it had just over-heated and when everything had cooled down it would have got over the trouble and stan first time.

He knew it wouldn't, though. The phone call had been a hoax to scare the hell out of him. But now he sensed that somewhere something was very wrong. Fate had suddenly decided to join forces with the unknown enemy that lurked in the mists of Hodre. And they had succeeded in getting him out of the way.

'If you'll take my advice you'll get this car serviced.' The tall, balding AA man had an expression of mystique on his angular features, like a doctor who had ummed and aahed all over your body until he came up with his final diagnosis, which he had probably known right from the beginning.

'It's just been bloody well serviced!' Peter snapped. 'About a week ago.'

'Well, in that case I'd try another garage next time.' The mechanic began dropping spanners back into a metal toolbox. 'The points hadn't been greased, so they weren't opening properly, and the air-filter hadn't been changed—which meant that the engine was over-heating. Oh, and the fan-belt was loose as well.'He had a kind of aren't—I—clever smirk. 'Thank you.' Peter got back behind the wheel, determined to check that the trouble really had been solved before the uniformed mechanic pulled away.

The engine fired and ticked over smoothly. Then the car moved off, picking up speed with its usual feeling of power. Peter glanced at his watch: three-thirty. He wouldn't be back in Woodside before four-fifteen at the earliest, Gavin would be getting worried, and he just hoped that the boy would have the sense to wait in the playground until he arrived. Damn it, there were no phone boxes on this stretch of road, no chance of getting a message to the school. He just had to drive hard and fast and pray that he would not break down again. Or crash. Hell, his nerves were frayed.

It was already dusk when the Saab's headlights illuminated the scattered farm cottages on the outskirts of Woodside. With an urgency, almost panic, Peter drew to a halt outside the school. The light from the end classroom showed up in the square of concrete bordered by railings which was the playground. It had an air of desertion about it, as though everybody had left and wouldn't come back.

Peter jumped out of the car and almost ran into the enclosure. He had to restrain himself from yelling, Gavin. Where are you? He stopped and looked around. There was nobody in sight. Oh God! Yet the school would not have been shut up with a light burning. There must be somebody around: there had to be.

'Can I help you, Mr Fogg?'

Peter whirled and tensed. He hadn't heard the soft footfalls of Malcolm Hughes approaching from behind. The schoolmaster must have been standing in the shadows by the buildings, waiting and watching. For what? Why was he so bloody secretive?

'Where's Gavin?' Peter's voice was terse, almost accusing. 'What have you done with my son?'

'He left about a quarter of an hour after school finished.' Hughes' supercilious smirk had Peter wanting to smash his fist into that florid face and shout: You've no business letting him leave. You're responsible for him until I come to collect him.

'Left?' Peter managed an incredulous croak. 'But—'

'Don't worry.' Hughes took his time, as though he was enjoying keeping the other in suspense. 'He hasn't gone off on his own. He was fortunate enough to be offered a lift up to Hodre.'

A lift! Jesus, hardly anybody went right up there into the hills. Maybe Janie had come back early from her parents. Then why the hell didn't this stupid sod say so?

'He's had a lift with Mr Ruskin in his Land Rover.'

Rushkin! Peter stiffened as a wave of cold fear passed over him and seemed to centre around his heart. The Land Rover which he had seen leaving the scene of the fire last night . . . The sheer malevolence in the landowner's eyes when they had met earlier that day . . . And now for some inexplicable reason Tim Ruskin had offered Gavin a lift home—or somewhere.

'Why? For God's sake, why's Ruskin taken my boy?'

'I never for one moment thought you would have any objection to one of your neighbours giving your son a lift home.' The headmaster's thick eyebrows rose and twitched. 'Mr Ruskin is a governor of the school and well-respected locally. He called to discuss a small matter with me after school, and as he left, Gavin was still hanging around outside waiting for you. In fact, I suggested that Mr Ruskin should make a slight detour and drop him off at your place. Surely there's nothing wrong in that, is there?'

'No, I suppose not.' Peter pursed his lips. Providing he's taken him home. 'No, nothing wrong at all. Thanks, Mr Hughes. I'd better rush back though because my wife's away today and the house is locked up.' And it's getting dark I

A mist was coming down, or was it the low cloud coming back, a mantle to cloak more evil? Peter drove fast, praying that nobody would be coming in the opposite direction on sidelights. The narrow lane seemed to hedge him in like a nightmare Hampton Court maze in which he thought he was never going to find the way out. It seemed unfamiliar, as though he had missed a turning somewhere and would go round and round in circles throughout the nocturnal hours. And all the time Gavin was—where?

Then the incline started to level out. Peter sighed audibly and eased his foot off the throttle. Hodre; the small stone cottage by the roadside was picked out in the headlights, a dark blue Mini parked on the adjoining grass verge. Janie was back, too. Everything was all right, there had been nothing to worry about all along. His own fears had escalated because he had let them run haywire; like Janie.

He sat in the car for a few moments after he had switched off engine and lights. Calm yourself, laddie, he told himself. The last thing you want Janie to see is that it's getting you, too. It's all in the mind. But the phone call wasn't. Neither was the fire, nor the gutted cat.

'What took you so long?' Janie was at the kitchen sink scrubbing a bowl of potatoes. It looked as if she'd been back some time.

Peter licked his lips. Another problem: he'd have to tell her about the malicious hoax call, unless he could think up a plausible lie instantly. It wasn't like writing a book, where he could take his time and get it right. Janie's eyes were already boring into him, looking for the lie.

'Where's Gavin?' Stall, play for time.

'Whatever d'you mean? A look of incredulity merged into sudden mounting terror. 'You've just collected him from school, haven't you?'