Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

Noah set the tray down on the bed.

“I’d like a bath,” Matt said.

“No bath.”

“How about a shower? Or maybe you don’t know what that is. From the smell of you, I’d say you’ve probably never had one either.”

The taunt worked. Noah was gazing at him, his attention diverted from the rest of the room. For a moment he stood there, breathing heavily. He took the sickle out of his belt and held it up to his lips. Then he ran his tongue down the blade. “I’ll enjoy watching you being killed,” he breathed. “You’ll scream like a pig. You’ll scream and you’ll cry, and I’ll be there!” He tucked the sickle back and walked over to the door. “No more food today,” he announced. “You can die hungry.” He slammed the door and locked it again.

Matt waited until he was sure Noah had really left, then he gulped down his breakfast. The tea was cold, the fried bread soggy. But he didn’t care. Hot or cold, the food would give him strength and that was one thing he needed. He was secretly glad that Noah wasn’t going to bring him lunch. That gave him more time. It was obvious to him that he wasn’t going to open the door by magic – or any other means. There was only one way out of here and that was through the hole he had already made. It just had to be bigger, and now he could work uninterrupted all day.

When Matt next looked at his watch it was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. His knees were sore. His back was stiff. His fingers were covered in blisters and one of his thumbs was gashed. But two more floorboards were free and only seven nails remained before the hole would be large enough for his purpose. He couldn’t jump down, or swing himself down at arm’s length. But he had another plan – and he would have only one chance to make it work.

Six o’clock arrived and still the fourth plank refused to budge. Seven nails stood between him and success. Now he worked more feverishly, caring less about the noise. What would he do if this didn’t turn out the way he hoped? He smiled grimly to himself. The chisel was hardly the most effective of weapons but it would have to do. If he could at least give Noah something to remember him by, he would go more cheerfully. Picturing that moment, he stabbed down with the flattened bar of iron. Another nail came free.

It was already dark when Noah returned. There was the familiar rattle of the key and the creak of the opening door. He stood on the threshold with the sickle tucked into his belt. There was no electricity in the room. He took out a torch and flicked it on.

“Time to go.” Noah sang out the words. “They’re all waiting for you.”

He was answered by complete silence.

“What’s the matter?” he hissed. “Are you playing games?”

From the far side of the room, where the bed stood, there came a painful groan.

“What is it? Are you sick?”

Matt groaned again and coughed – a hard, rattling cough. Anxiously, Noah held the torch at arm’s length.

“If this is some sort of trick,” he threatened, “I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’ll-”

He took two paces into the room and stepped on to the rug.

The rug was covering the hole that Matt had spent the whole day making. Noah dropped the torch and disappeared without a sound. The rug went with him, sucked downwards like an animal trap. At once Matt sprang off the bed. The torch was lying on the floor and he snatched it up, then hurried out of the room, along the corridor and downstairs. The sight that greeted him at the bottom was not a pretty one. He had hoped the farmhand would knock himself out when he hit the ground. But somehow Noah had fallen on the sickle. It had gone through his stomach and out the other side. His face was distorted in an expression of pain and surprise. He was quite dead.

Matt ran out into the darkness. It was raining and he felt needles of water slicing into his face. The road seemed to have been churned up into puddles and mud that threatened to drag him down. Twice he stumbled and fell, setting the bruise on his shoulder on fire. But he didn’t even hesitate. He ran headlong into the night, unaware of anything but the sound of his feet hitting the road, the drumming of his blood in his ears and the gasping of his breath as it emerged in fierce white clouds from his mouth.

He ran until every step made him wince and his legs shouted at him to let him rest. His mind was numb. He was no more than a machine. Rainwater streaked across his face and trickled down the back of his neck. At last he came to the end of his strength. He had to stop. He saw a bank of grass and collapsed on to it. He had no idea how far he had come. A mile? It could have been ten.

The headlights of a car appeared in the distance. Matt lifted his head and, moving like an old man, began to get to his feet. He knew it was dangerous but he had no choice. He had to stop the car and ask for a lift. Perhaps the driver would hand him to the police. But it didn’t matter. It was Roodmas. Tomorrow he would be safe.

Staggering forward, he raised his arms. The car slowed down and stopped. Its headlamps lit up the rain, making it look like spilled ink. It was a sports car. A black Jaguar.

The door opened and the driver got out. Matt tried to move towards him, lost his balance and tumbled into a pair of outstretched arms.

“Good heavens!” Sir Michael Marsh said.

It was the government scientist he had visited with Richard. He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” Sir Michael demanded. Then: “No. Don’t try to speak now. Let me get you into the car, out of this rain.”

Matt allowed himself to be carried to the car and slumped gratefully into the front seat. Sir Michael shook off the rain and got in next to him. The engine of the car was still running, the windscreen wipers turning. But the car didn’t move. Sir Michael looked completely perplexed.

“It’s Matthew Freeman, isn’t it?” he said. “What on earth are you doing in this dreadful state? Have you had an accident?”

“No… I…”

“You look as if you’ve just escaped from a pack of bears.”

“I’m very cold.”

“Then we must try to get you into the warm at once. Don’t you worry. It’s very lucky I ran into you. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

He put the car into gear and they moved off. Sir Michael turned on the heater and Matt felt a cushion of hot air surround his legs. He was safe! Sir Michael Marsh would listen to his story. He had the power to see to it that Mrs Deverill and the other villagers were defeated. He would make sure that no more harm would come to him. The car sped on through the night. Matt relaxed in the soft leather seat. All he wanted to do was sleep. He had never been so tired.

But he couldn’t. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. What was it? He played back the words Sir Michael had spoken just a few minutes ago.

“ It’s Matthew Freeman, isn’t it? ”

He knew his surname.

When Richard had taken him to Sir Michael’s house in York he had introduced him simply as Matt. Only Mrs Deverill knew his second name. Sir Michael couldn’t have known it.

Unless…

Matt scrambled for the door handle and tried to open it, but it was locked. He turned to Sir Michael just as a fist with a gold signet ring on one finger crashed into the side of his head, throwing him against the window and stunning him. The old man was unbelievably strong. Now Matt remembered seeing the car before – at Hive Hall.

“Please don’t try to move,” Sir Michael said. “The doors are locked and there’s nowhere you can go. I don’t enjoy hitting children and I don’t want to do it again, but I will if you try anything.”