Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

It was nine o’clock, one hour before Matt had arranged to meet Tom Burgess. Matt was working on the tractor, washing it down. For the fiftieth time he looked around him, and realized he was finally alone. Noah was on the other side of the barn, mending some pipes. Mrs Deverill was feeding the pigs. Neither of them was watching him, nor was there any sign of Asmodeus. Matt dropped the hose, then turned off the tap and waited until the last jet of water had splashed on to the ground. Still nobody came. He had left the old bicycle in the yard, close at hand. He stole over to it and pushed it out of the farm. Pedalling would have made too much noise.

A minute later he was through the gate and on the lane. He looked back with a sense of relief. It had all been much easier than he had thought.

Too easy? Matt remembered the way Mrs Deverill had smiled at him in the kitchen. He had wondered then if she knew more than she was letting on. All the time he had the feeling she was playing with him, and the photograph and police report hidden in her bedroom cupboard had only confirmed it. She knew who he was. He was more sure of it than ever. He had been chosen on purpose.

Matt got on the bike and began to pedal, turning left as Tom Burgess had told him. The last time he had attempted this journey, the lane had simply looped him back to where he had started. But this time was different. He was wearing the talisman that the farmer had given him. He reached up and felt it against his chest. Why a stone with a picture of a key should make any difference was beyond him. It was just one of the many questions he intended to ask.

The lane led uphill but there was no crossroads at the top. Instead the road continued past a series of fields. A low, stone wall rose and dipped ahead. He came to a signpost and this one wasn’t broken. It read: GREATER MALLING 4 MILES. Matt stared at it. It was the first reminder he’d had that there was an actual world outside Hive Hall and he had no idea how he’d managed to miss it when he made the journey two nights before.

He found Glendale Farm easily enough. There was a turning about a quarter of a mile further along, with the name printed in bright blue letters on a white gate. Even as Matt cycled down the flower-bordered drive that led from the main road, he thought how much more welcoming it was than Hive Hall. The barn and stables were clean and ordered, standing next to a pretty pond. A swan glided on the water, its reflection shimmering in the morning sunlight, while a family of ducks waddled across the lawn. In a nearby paddock a cow chewed grass, mooing contentedly.

The farmhouse itself was red brick, with neat white shutters and a grey slate roof. Part of the roof was covered in plastic sheeting, where the farmer had been working on repairs. An old weathervane stood at one corner, a wrought-iron cock looking out over the four points of the compass. Today it was facing south.

Matt got off the bike, crossed the farmyard to the front door and pulled a metal chain to ring a bell in the porch. He was early – it was only half past nine. He waited, then rang again. No answer. Perhaps Tom Burgess was working in the barn. Matt walked over and looked inside. There was a tractor and an assortment of tools, a pile of sacks and a few bales of hay… yet no sign of the farmer.

“Mr Burgess?” he called.

Silence. Nothing moved.

But the farmer had to be there. His car, a Peugeot, was parked in the drive. Matt went back to the house and tried the front door. It opened.

“Mr Burgess?” he called again.

There was no answer. Matt went inside.

The front door led straight into the main room, which had a large fireplace with a gleaming pair of bronze tongs and a small shovel leaning against the grate. The fire had evidently burned during the night, as the ashes were still strewn over the hearth. The place was a mess. Tables had been overturned and books and papers scattered on the floor. All the inside shutters were hanging off, some of them broken in half. Matt’s foot caught a stray pot of paint. He picked it up and put it to one side.

The kitchen was in a worse state. The drawers were open and their contents had been thrown everywhere. There were broken plates and glasses and, in the middle of the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whisky lying on its side. Matt glanced up. A huge carving knife had been thrust into a kitchen cupboard, its blade penetrating the wood. The handle slanted towards him. It looked odd and menacing.

Every fibre of his being was telling him to get out of here, but Matt couldn’t leave now. He found himself drawn to the stairs. Narrow and twisting, they led up from the kitchen and before he knew what he was doing, Matt was on his way up, dreading what he would find at the top but still unable to stop himself. He wasn’t expected for another half an hour. Maybe Tom Burgess was still asleep. That was what he told himself. But somehow he didn’t believe it.

The stairs led to a landing with three doors. Gently, he opened the one nearest to him.

It led into a bedroom, and this was worse than anything Matt had seen downstairs. The room looked as though a whirlwind had hit it. The bedclothes were crumpled and torn, spread out over the carpet. The curtains had been ripped down and one of the window panes was smashed. A bedside table lay on its side, with a lamp, an alarm clock and a pile of paperbacks thrown on to the floor. The wardrobe doors were open and all the clothes were in a heap in one corner. A tin of green paint had toppled over, spilling its contents into the middle of the mess.

Then Matt saw Tom Burgess.

The farmer was lying on the floor on the other side of the bed, partly covered by a sheet. He was obviously dead. Something – some sort of animal – had torn into his face and neck. There were hideous red gashes in his skin and his fair hair was matted with blood. His eyes were bulging, staring vacantly, and his mouth was forced open in a last attempt at a scream. His hands were stiff and twisted in a frantic effort to ward something off. One of them was smeared with green paint, which had glued his fingers together. His legs were bent underneath him in such a way that Matt knew the bones must be broken.

Matt backed away, gasping. He thought he was going to be sick. Somehow he forced his eyes away and then he saw it, painted on the wall behind the door. In the last moments of his life, the farmer had managed to scrawl two words, using his own hand smeared with paint:

RAVEN'S GATE

Matt read it as he backed out of the room. He shut the door behind him and reeled down the stairs. He remembered seeing a phone in the kitchen. He snatched up the receiver and dialled 999 with a finger that wouldn’t stop shaking. But there was no dialling tone. The phone had been disconnected.

He threw down the receiver and staggered out of the house. The moment he reached the yard, he threw up. He had never seen a dead body before, let alone one as twisted and tortured as that of Tom Burgess… He hoped he would never see one again. He found that he was shivering. As soon as he felt strong enough, he began to run. He had forgotten the bicycle. He just wanted to get out of there.

Matt ran back up the drive and on to the main road, heading in the direction of Greater Malling. He must have run for at least half a mile before he collapsed on to a bed of grass and lay there, the breath rasping in his throat. He didn’t have the strength to go on. And what was the point? He had no parents and no friends. He was going to die in Lesser Malling and nobody would care.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, but at last the sound of an approaching car reached his ears and he sat up and looked down the road. The car was white, a four-wheel drive with a sign attached to the roof. Matt breathed a sigh of relief. It was a police car. For the first time in his life, it was something he actually wanted to see.