Catherine Fisher - Darkwater

He glanced back. “I thought I heard something.”

In the silence the branches sissed, an eternal sound. The snuffle, or whatever it was, would be lost under them.

Wordless, Sarah pulled him on. They walked into blindness, their only guide the puddles on the track; ghostly echoes of the lighter sky. Ahead, as they slipped and skidded down, the track turned a corner. Eerie sounds came toward them, voices wailing, far across the moor. Heart thudding, Sarah stopped.

They listened, under the pine smell of the branches.

“It’s a black dog all right,” Tom said in relief. “But not that sort.”

At the pub, when they reached it, the New Year revels had started. The windows spilled warm light; the parking lot was lit with multicolored lanterns.

Sarah walked past quickly, clutching the stitch in her side; Tom followed, till the well-known voice stopped him rigid.

“Tommy! Look lads, it’s lover boy!”

After a second, he turned.

Steve Tate was sitting on the doorstep with a can of beer in his hand. He crushed it now; the metal crumpled with a loud crack. The other two, Mark and Rob, came out of the pub.

“Come on,” Sarah said uneasily.

Tom didn’t hesitate. As he marched straight up to them, Steve scrambled to his feet; even before Tom grabbed his collar, there was a startled disbelief in his face.

“I never liked that name,” Tom said pleasantly. “I don’t want to hear it again. Okay?”

Steve tried to pull back; Tom gripped tighter.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I pushed you into a cellar and slammed the door on you,” Tom said quietly. “And I saw what it did to you.” For a second Steve was still; then he wrenched away and laughed a startlingly false laugh. “You’re a bloody nutcase.”

Tom turned away.

“Happy New Year,” he said, over his shoulder.

Sarah had her arms folded; Simon was grinning. They swung into step beside him.

“Well,” she said, “I’m impressed. But he’ll be furious.”

Tom glanced back. Steve was yelling at Mark, flinging the beer can at him. “He won’t change. But I have.”

“They might come after you.”

“I don’t care.” The strange thing was, it was true.

Sarah opened the farm gate. “So maybe Azrael was wrong and the tramp was right. There is a place for revenge.”

“I should have been able to do it without all that.” He slipped through after her, jarring rows of hanging drops from the gate-bar.

Far off, the Mamble church clock chimed; they counted, silent. Eight.

Four hours to midnight.

Now they ran hard. Down Branscombe, spattering the mud at the bottom, into the black, empty stretch of moor toward Stee. This was treacherous ground. Faint steams and wisps of fog rose from it, gathering in hollows.

And then, close behind, the dog howled.

Tom turned. They waited, a breathless hush. To their left another howl, nearer.

“They’re out,” Sarah said grimly. “He’s hunting me.”

Dark shapes loped and slithered.

“Water!” Tom caught her hand and they splashed into the bog, sinking instantly, Simon behind them. Floundering, they struggled in the cold to keep their footing, stumbling on buried tussocks.

The howls were nearer. All around them now the midnight hounds slavered and ran. Tom glanced back. “Keep up,” he called anxiously.

Simon’s face was a paleness in the mist. He slipped, and yelled. Tom let go of Sarah’s arm and swore. “I’ll have to go back for him!”

“Wait!” she gasped, but even as she said it a rapid barking rang out; Simon was swallowed in the clinging fog. Only his voice screamed, terrified and in agony. “Tom! It’s got me! Tom! ”

Tom didn’t hesitate. “Go on!” he yelled. Floundering back, he burst through the fog into a knot of darkness. Hounds flew apart; one backed slowly, head down, growling. But the other held its grip, and to his amazement he saw it had hold of Simon’s arm and was pulling him down. He had fallen on his knees in the marsh, struggling and swearing, clothes sopping with water. He looked terrified.

And his arm was bleeding.

twenty-five

“Tom!” His brother grabbed, sank.

Tom kicked at the hound, hard in its chest. The growl simmered in its throat.

“It’s hurting me!”

“I know! Wait!”

“Here!” Sarah was there; she dragged a broken gorse branch in one hand and a heavy stick in the other. She threw the stick; he grabbed it before it sank and thwacked the bog furiously. Mud and water flew up; algae spattered everything.

“Get out!” he yelled. “Go on! Go on!”

The hound opened its teeth and barked.

With a gasp of relief Simon fell backward; Sarah grabbed him, pulling him up.

“Get him away!” Tom yelled. He backed cautiously. All around in the fog the slinking shapes circled, their paws deep in the evil-smelling murk. For a moment as Sarah and Simon splashed into darkness he thought the whole pack would rush at him, their small red eyes blinking like coals. He gripped the stick, planted his feet firmly.

“So come on,” he breathed.

At once, far off, a low whistle echoed.

The pack melted.

In seconds the fog was empty.

After a while, he turned and struggled on. The ground grew more solid; the legs of his trousers stuck to him in the sudden bitter cold.

“Where are you?” he called.

“Over here.”

In the shelter of a stone wall Sarah had Simon’s sleeve rolled up and was mopping the bite with something. Blood ran freely down his wrist. They all stared at it, fascinated. “What’s happening to me?” Simon whispered.

Tom shook his head. “Can you stop it?”

“I can tie it up.” Sarah’s wet fingers worked fast. “That’s about all.” She grinned at Simon. “Does it sting?”

“It’s throbbing like mad,” he said gloomily.

Tom laughed. “Welcome to the human race. But let’s go. Before those creatures come back.”

The fog confused them. There were no stars to see by, and the moor seemed endless on each side; they struggled on for almost an hour until Tom knew they were lost. They should have reached the main road a long time ago.

“In this light we won’t see it till we get right up to it,” Sarah gasped. “There’ll be no traffic.”

And no ride either, Tom thought, but he said nothing.

Pausing for breath in the lee of a thorn bush, he listened.

Over the blackness of the moor came a new sound. A whine, high, almost unhearable. Machinery.

“Listen!”

They kept still, Simon crouched breathless on his heels.

“What is it?”

“It’s over that way.” Tom looked into the fog.

“What if that’s the wrong way?” Simon muttered.

“It’s as good as any other.” In the darkness Tom wiped water off his watch and held it close to his eyes. “Nine forty.” He went and tugged his brother gently to his feet. “Come on. We’ll get there.”

“I’ve got a pain in my side, I’m cold, wet, and scared.” Simon rubbed his face ruefully. “If this is being alive, you can keep it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sarah pushed ahead of him grimly. “It seems pretty good to me.”

The sound was coming from a fluorescent light fixed under the rickety forecourt of a garage. In the foggy air the light crackled and hummed. A radio was playing in the office somewhere; as they crept down the lane toward it, a car passed them, going slow. “Quick!” Tom turned the corner into the forecourt.

The car had pulled up for gas.

“Right,” Tom said. “You’d better go. Ask for a lift to Bodmin. Then we’ll come.”

“Brilliant!” She was sarcastic, but she stepped out.

The car door swung open.

Scrab got out.

Instantly Sarah flattened herself behind one of the gas pumps.