Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

“Where’s the Yorkshire Post?”

“It’s in York. If you want a local newspaper office, you’ll have to try the Gazette. They’re in Farrow Street. But I doubt they’ll be able to help you with any school project.”

It took Matt a moment to work out what the man was talking about. Then he remembered the lie he had told to get on to the computers. “I can try,” he said.

Farrow Street was a leftover from medieval times. It was very narrow and quiet, crammed with dustbins full of bottles and cans. As he turned off from the main road Matt thought that the librarian had made a mistake. It seemed the last sort of place you’d want a newspaper office, cut off from the rest of the town in this dirty and forgotten corner. But about halfway down he came to a row of shops. First there was an undertaker. Then a travel agency. And finally a crumbling red-brick building on three floors that advertised itself with a plastic sign next to the door: GREATER MALLING GAZETTE.

Matt entered an open-plan area with a young, frizzy haired girl sitting behind a desk, eating a sandwich, typing on a computer and talking into a headset that was plugged into her phone. She seemed to be both the receptionist and the secretary for the three journalists who were sitting at desks behind her. There were two women and a man, and Matt was struck by how bored they all looked. One of the women was yawning continuously, scratching her head and staring into space. The other woman was half-asleep. The man was fiddling with a pencil and gazing at his computer screen, as if he hoped that whatever story he was working on would write itself.

“Can I help you?” It was the receptionist who had spoken. Matt thought she was talking into the mouthpiece but then he saw that she was looking at him.

“Yeah. I want to talk to someone who knows about local affairs.”

“Do you live around here?”

“I’m staying in Lesser Malling.”

The girl leant back. “Richard!” she called. She had a nasal, rather whiny voice. “There’s someone here for you.”

The man who had been playing with the pencil looked up. “What?”

“This kid here – he wants to see you.”

“Yeah. All right.”

The man stood up and sauntered over to Matt. He was in his twenties, dressed in a striped shirt and loose, faded jeans. He had a serious, intelligent face… the sort of face Sherlock Holmes might have had when he was young. His hair was short, blond and scruffy. He hadn’t shaved for the last couple of days. Nor, from the look of it, had he changed his shirt. Everything about him was crumpled: his hair, his clothes, even the way he stood.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I need help,” Matt replied.

“What sort of help?”

“I’m trying to find out about something.”

“Why?”

“It’s for a school project.”

“What school do you go to?”

That took Matt by surprise. “I go to school in Lesser Malling,” he lied. He didn’t even know the school’s name.

“And you’re doing a school project?”

“Yes.”

“Try the library.”

“I have. They sent me here.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.” The journalist shrugged. “I’m busy.”

“You don’t look busy,” Matt said.

“Well, I was busy until you arrived.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Busy being busy. All right?”

Matt forced himself to keep his temper. “OK, maybe I can help you,” he said. “You’re a journalist. Maybe I’ve got a story.”

“A story?”

“I might have.”

“All right. Come upstairs.”

The journalist led Matt up to the first floor and into a conference room that looked out on to Farrow Street. It wasn’t much of a room, but it was already obvious to Matt that this wasn’t much of a paper either. There were eight seats arranged around a wooden table, a presentation board and a water cooler.

“Thirsty?” the journalist asked.

Matt nodded.

He took out a plastic cup and filled it. Matt saw a single bubble of air rise up inside the water. He took the cup. The water was lukewarm.

“My name is Richard Cole,” the journalist said, sitting down at the table. He produced a notepad and opened it at a blank page.

“I’m Matt.”

“Just Matt?”

“That’s right.”

“You said you were staying at Lesser Malling.”

“Yes. Do you know it?”

Richard smiled humourlessly. “I’ve been through. I’m meant to cover it. Me, Kate and Julia – they’re the girls you saw downstairs – we all have our own territories. I got Lesser Malling. Lucky me!”

“Why lucky you?”

“Because nothing ever happens. I’m twenty-five years old. I’ve been working in this dump for eighteen months. And do you know the biggest news event I’ve had to cover so far? BAD EYESIGHT KILLS OLD

LADY.”

“How can bad eyesight kill you?”

“She fell in the river. We had a dog show in Greater Malling last week. The fleas were more interesting than the dogs. I got a parking ticket once. I almost put that on the front page.” He threw down the notepad and yawned. “You see, Matt, this is one of the most boring places in England… possibly in the whole world. It’s just a poxy little market town that doesn’t even have a market. Nothing ever happens.”

“So why are you here?”

“That’s a good question.” Richard sighed. “Three years at York University. All I ever wanted to be was a journalist. I did a course in London. I thought I’d get on to the Mail or the Express or else I’d just freelance. But there are no jobs around. I couldn’t afford to live in London so I thought I’d come back north again. Maybe get a job on the Yorkshire Post. I live in York. I like York. But the Yorkshire Post wouldn’t have me. I think I made a bad impression at my interview.”

“What happened?”

“I ran over the editor. It wasn’t my fault. I was late. I was reversing and I heard this thump. I didn’t realize it was him until I met him ten minutes later.” Richard shrugged. “Then I heard there was a place going here and, although Greater Malling was obviously a dump, I thought I’d take it. I mean, it was a job. But nobody reads the Gazette. That’s because – apart from adverts – there’s sod all in it. LOCAL VICAR OPENS FETE. That’s one week. Then, a week later… LOCAL SURGEON OPENS VICAR. It’s pathetic. And I’m stuck here until something else comes along, but nothing else has come along so I’m… stuck!” Richard pulled himself together. “You said you had a story.” He reached for his notepad and opened it. “That’s the one thing that’ll get me out of here. An old-fashioned scoop. Give me something I can put on the front page and I’ll give you any help you need. Right, so you’re staying in Lesser Malling?”

“I told you…”

“Where exactly?”

“A farm. A place called Hive Hall.”

Richard scribbled down the name. “So what’s the story?”

“I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”

“Try me.” Richard had perked up. He was looking more interested and alert.

“All right.” Matt wasn’t sure about this. He had only come to the Gazette to ask about Raven’s Gate. But there was something about the journalist that seemed trustworthy. He decided to go ahead.

And so he told Richard everything that had happened since his arrival in Lesser Malling. He described his first visit to the village and the chemist shop, his meeting with Tom Burgess, the lights and whispering in the wood, his time with Mrs Deverill, his second meeting with the farmer and his discovery of the dead body in the bedroom.

“…and that’s why,” he concluded, “I’m trying to find out who or what this Raven’s Gate is. It’s obviously something important. Tom Burgess died trying to warn me.”