Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

Mrs Deverill’s car wasn’t there.

The Land Rover was always parked in the same place, next to the barn, and it had been there at dinner time. Could she have left Hive Hall? Was she somewhere in the wood, part of whatever it was that was going on? Was Matt alone at the farm?

He went back into the living room. The portrait was the first thing he noticed and this time he knew it wasn’t his imagination: it had definitely changed a second time. The figure had raised a hand and a skeletal finger was now pointing upwards, as if ordering him to bed. Matt was certain it hadn’t been painted that way.

Matt did go upstairs, but not to his own room. He had to know if he was right, even though he dreaded what he must do. He crept to the end of the corridor and knocked gently on Mrs Deverill’s door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, louder. Then he opened the door.

He found himself looking into a cold, empty room with bare floorboards and an iron bed. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers but little else. The bed was empty. He was right. Mrs Deverill wasn’t here. At last he’d been given the opportunity he needed.

Matt had already decided he was going back to London. Now he knew it was going to happen tonight. By daybreak he would have reached the motorway and he would hitch-hike south. He had no doubt that Mrs Deverill would call the police, but the further away he managed to get, the harder it would be for them to find him. Once he reached London, he would be safe. But he needed cash. Money was the difference between survival and constant danger. He would have to buy food. He’d need to find a room. There must be money in the house. He would find it and steal it now.

He began in the kitchen. No longer caring how much noise he made, he rifled through the drawers and cupboards, opened jars and boxes, trying to work out where Mrs Deverill kept her housekeeping funds. He could still hear the whispering, although it was more intermittent now. Was it coming to an end? He glanced at his watch. A quarter past one. He moved more quickly, afraid that the woman could return at any time. There was no money in the room. He looked for her handbag. A handbag would mean cash and possibly credit cards. But she must have taken it with her.

He tried the living room. Now the portrait seemed to watch angrily as he searched, looking behind the books and under the chairs in the hope that Mrs Deverill might have tucked her purse away. Matt hadn’t turned on the lights – Noah might still be in the barn and he was afraid of giving himself away. He was crossing over to look around the fireplace when something screamed at him, sending him back, his heart pounding. It was Asmodeus, Mrs Deverill’s cat. It had been asleep on one of the chairs but now it was standing up, as if electrocuted, its fur bristling, its eyes ablaze. It opened its mouth and hissed, revealing a set of white fangs. Matt stood still. The cat was going to attack him. He was sure of it. It was already bracing itself, the claws of its two front paws ripping at the material, practising what it was going to do to his face.

Matt looked around. There was a poker next to the fire; a heavy antique thing. He thought of snatching it up but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to use it. The cat’s tail whipped briefly. Its eyes had never left him. He had dared to abuse Mrs Deverill’s hospitality and now he was going to pay. The cat hissed a second time and leapt.

Matt was ready for it. There was a large basket beside the poker. Normally it would contain logs but for once it was empty. Matt grabbed it and threw it down over the cat even as it left the chair. He heard a terrible screaming and yowling, felt the claws battering desperately at the straw cage. Matt slammed the basket down on to the chair, imprisoning the cat inside. Holding the basket with one hand, he reached out with the other. Mrs Deverill had an old-fashioned sewing machine which was on the floor beside the chair. Using all his strength, Matt picked it up and dropped it on top of the basket. The straw creaked. The cat hurled itself against the side. But the basket held. Asmodeus wasn’t going anywhere.

Matt straightened up. He was trembling from the shock of what had just happened. And he was suddenly aware of something else. There was no sound coming from the wood. The whispering had stopped. So far he had found nothing and he was running out of time.

There was just one room left.

He went back upstairs and into Mrs Deverill’s bedroom. Surely he would find money here. He opened the wardrobe. Mrs Deverill’s clothes hovered in the darkness, suspended from wire hangers with her shoes underneath. Matt was about to close the door when he noticed a cardboard box in the back corner. He leant down and opened it. There was something inside. Not money. Photographs.

He took one of them out and found himself looking at a cemetery. The photograph was black and white, taken with a telephoto lens. There was a crowd of people, dressed in the usual sombre clothes, and in the middle of them, a boy who was eight years old. Matt recognized him instantly and felt a surge of horror and sickness. He was looking at a picture of himself.

This was his parents’ funeral.

Six years ago.

But it was impossible. Nobody had taken any photographs. And even if they had, even if a journalist or someone had been there, what was this picture doing here? How had Mrs Deverill got hold of it?

There were two sheets of paper attached to the photograph by a clip. Matt slipped them loose, then turned them round so he could read them. An official police report. Each page was marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters. In the half-light Matt tried to concentrate on the words:

AND THE WITNESS STATEMENT OF MRS ROSEMARY GREEN IN RELATION TO THIS CASE IS NOT TO BE RELEASED AND WE RECOMMEND A COMPLETE MEDIA BLACKOUT. THE CHILD, MATTHEW FREEMAN, IS ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HAS DEMONSTRATED PRECOGNITIVE ABILITIES WHICH WOULD SEEM TO BE BEYOND…

Precognitive abilities. Matt didn’t want to put the words into simple English. Nor did he want to read any more of the report. In that second, he made his decision. He thrust the box back into the corner, closed the wardrobe doors and left. In the living room, the portrait watched silently. Asmodeus slammed itself again and again against the sides of the basket, trying to escape. Matt didn’t notice either of them. He threw open the door and ran across the yard.

He hadn’t found any money but he would just have to do without it.

It was definitely time to leave.

It took Matt just a few minutes to cycle up to the crossroads. The night had grown colder and his breath frosted as he paused by the broken sign, taking his bearings. He had a choice of five country lanes, each one cutting through the wood in a different direction. He had just taken one from the farm, and he knew that one of them led to Lesser Malling. That left only three. He chose the middle path and set off, grateful for the moon showing him the way. There was no sound coming from the wood. The electric lights had been turned off. His greatest fear was that he could run into Mrs Deverill, returning from wherever she had been. He listened out for the sound of her Land Rover but there was nothing. He was utterly alone.

Matt tried to concentrate on what he was doing. He didn’t want to look at the woodland but he couldn’t help being aware of it as it pressed in on him on all sides. The trunks of the trees, in their long lines, were silhouetted against the moon. They were like the solid bars of a huge open-air jail. The branches, swaying slightly, cast a thousand shadows over the ground. The pine needles rustled together and almost seemed to be whispering to themselves as he pedalled past.

Matt kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him. He intended to cycle all night. The discovery of the photograph had made him determined. He was just going to have to chance it in London. Without money. Without anywhere to live. The police would probably find him in the end, but that didn’t matter. They could put him in a secure training centre for as long as they liked… Anything, so long as it didn’t involve Mrs Deverill or Lesser Malling.