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a violent land. Gangs amalgamated for bigger kills and bigger profits. Men who
poached by night and slept by day, desperate thugs who would kill rather than
be caught, planted their own decoys to fool police and forestry rangers. And
at the end of the day they became rich and gave no thought to the needless
suffering they had caused by their greed.
The deer were welcome on Hodre, Peter reflected. At least they weren't
subjected to that', only cats and rabbits apparently.
He found work somewhat easier in the evening. It compensated for Janie's and
Gavin's absence and dispelled loneliness. In a way Janie had done him a
favour, because he would finish his book that much quicker, and maybe he could
even be out of here by late spring.
He worked on late and didn't break off until shortly before midnight. He could
have gone on longer, but past experience had taught him that long concentrated
spells of writing were no advantage because tiredness slowed him down the
following day. Like a cross-country runner, one had to maintain an even pace.
He made himself a mug of coffee and sat drinking it by the Rayburn in the
kitchen. It was the worst time of the day for him, the time when he got round
to thinking about things, when the protective shield of work was lowered. He
glanced at the clock: eleven-fifty. He had a sudden pang of uneasiness: Janie
should have phoned. Or maybe she was still being stubborn and putting the onus
of communication on him. It was late; probably her parents had already been in
bed for an hour. She might even have turned in herself.
He pursed his lips and stared into the muddy-coloured liquid that was supposed
to be instant coffee, recommended for calming the nerves. That was a load of
bull, the way he felt right now. To phone or not to phone, that was the
question.
Peter stood up. He knew he'd have to make the call. His conscience was
beginning to trouble him. This was how marriages broke up: a temporary
separation to begin with until you got used to being without each other, then
you didn't really want to go to the trouble of getting back together. He
didn't really have a good reason for staying. He didn't need Hodre to write a
book; a thousand other places would do. Neither did he have to involve himself
in local feuds, prejudices and cock-and-bull stories that wouldn't even make
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good background for a novel because they were so common. Almost every old
house, tract of wood, moor and heath had its own resident spook, according to
the locals of those places.
He went into the hall and started to dial. He was only on the third digit when
he got the feeling that something was wrong. The instrument seemed lifeless,
as though the dialling mechanism was performing the motions but nothing else;
no clicking into place, no sound of wires humming and picking up the message.
Peter's uneasiness increased. He finished dialling and listened. Silence. He
tried again with fading hopes. Nothing.
Oh, Jesus Christ the fucking thing was dead! He slammed the receiver back,
wanting to pummel it with his fists, smash it. But he didn't, because the
prickling sensation was creeping back up his spine and into the nape of his
neck, goose-pimpling his skin.
He glanced at the door and made certain the bolt was shot home. He'd check the
downstairs windows too before he went upstairs. Just to be sure.
Outside he could hear the wind, a soft soughing noise that increased in volume
even as he listened, buffeted the door as though it was trying to get in.
Maybe it had got up earlier and he hadn't noticed it. It was a lot colder too,
icy draughts seeming to come from a score of different directions. Suddenly
autumn had become winter.
He had a sudden feeling that he wanted to dash outside, hurl himself behind
the wheel of the Saab and drive like hell to put as many miles as possible
between Hodre and himself.
Your phone's dead. The car might not start! Don't go outside, because you
don't know what's lurking out there.
It was all in the mind. He was tired, over-worked. He knew there was nothing
there that could possibly hurt him, All the same he checked the doors and
windows and went upstairs without even finishing his coffee. His fears would
run riot if he didn't check them: his escalating terror; claustrophobia
because he was trapped; agoraphobia because he wouldn't dare go out anyway. In
the end he would go mad.
Peter flung himself down on the bed and tried to tell himself once again that
it was all in the mind. But true or false, he was trapped here. Alone.
Peter had never found sleeping alone conducive to a good night's rest. He
tossed and turned in the crumpled sheets, somehow dragging the blankets up
from the bottom so that a cold draught from the ill-fitting window chilled his
feet. He dozed fitfully, stretched out an arm that was habitually trained to
encircle a sleeping partner and groaned to himself when he found that there
was nobody there beside him.
It was morning; it had to be, because the room was filled with brilliant
sunlight. He must have slept late. He dragged himself up into a sitting
position, opened his eyes and immediately blinked them shut again, tensing
because he still had the feeling that something was wrong, just like last
night when he'd started to phone Janie.
It was too bright. Late November morning sunlight never reached this degree of
intensity. He squinted, the glare hurting his eyeballs, forcing him to turn
away momentarily, but that one glimpse had been enough. h was still dark
outside and this dazzling light was artificial.'
Forcing his confused brain to work he slid out of bed, groped his way towards
the window. Headlights, that's what it was, a vehicle parked in the lane
outside with its lights on full beam and directed up at the bedroom window. A
Land Rover maybe! He couldn't figure out how the driver had got the necessary
elevation.
Then suddenly it was pitch dark again. Silence, not even an engine ticking
over idly. Even the wind seemed to have dropped.
Peter reached the window and stood there looking out into the blackness of a
mountain night. He saw only shooting lights like the magnificence of an aurora
borealis as his eyes rebelled against the alternating brilliance and darkness.
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No, he hadn't dreamed it, because he could still feel the searing pain in his
pupils, and see a kaleidoscope of colours that threatened to blind him.
And then the light was back again, a single white beam that hit him with the
force of a water cannon, and made him stagger back and cover his eyes with his
hands. Christ alive, what the hell was going on out there?
He stood back and forced himself to look. The light wasn't coining from the
adjoining lane, that was a certainty. It came from somewhere on the fields
above - which explained how it came to be directed down into the bedroom. A
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