The Taken
i 
PRAISE FOR SARAH PINBOROUGH!
BREEDING GROUND
"There's plenty of suspense, some gruesome and creepy imagery...Breeding 
Ground's conclusion begs for a sequel, and will be enjoyed by all 
end-of-the-world horror fans."
--The Horror Fiction Review
"With Breeding Ground, I think Sarah Pinborough has finally cemented herself 
among the big boys of horror, gender issues be damned. As it was with all her 
other books, I can't wait to see what she's got in store for us next!"
--Dread Central
"Breeding Ground is a wonderfully entertaining and shriek-inspiring novel 
beautifully wrought by an author with an unflinching eye and a steady hand."
--Creature Feature
THE RECKONING
"... [A] gripping tale of supernatural suspense...fans of Bentley Little, 
Richard Laymon and Dean Koontz will be pleased."
--Publishers Weekly
"[A] great story complete with solid characters and an interesting premise."
--The Horror Channel
THE HIDDEN
"Quite unique... Ms. Pinborough does an amazing job.
... A great read."
--The Horror Channel
"Original and gripping."
--Horror Web
ii 
THE DYING MAN
The body that lay twisted on the hard stone paving slabs seemed unrecognizable 
as the vicar. Wearing ordinary gray trousers and a V-neck pullover, out of his 
church uniform he was no longer a representative of a higher power, but just a 
person, vulnerable and so pathetically human. Hearing Simon letting out a long 
shaky breath beside her, Alex absorbed the details, her eyes and brain working 
together against her need not to know, not to see.
"Still alive ... he's still alive." Simon stared as the vicar's eyelids 
fluttered open. Alex fell to the ground, kneeling in the man's blood, her heart 
pounding in her chest with hope. Reverend Baker coughed; a weak, wet sound that 
sent a shiver up Alex's spine, and spots of blood appeared on his teeth as he 
opened his mouth, his breath raw and sweetly rotten.
"Shhh. Don't try and speak. Don't try and speak." Her own eyes were blurring 
with tears, but she could see that the vicar's were so full of pain he couldn't 
even focus. When he whispered, he sent his words somewhere between her and 
Simon, as if a ghost had joined them that only he could see.
"Melanie Parr. ..."
iii 
The Taken
iv 
Other Leisure books by Sarah Pinborough:
BREEDING GROUND 
THE RECKONING 
THE HIDDEN
v 
THE TAKEN
SARAH PINBOROUGH
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY
vi 
This one is going out for the girls:
For Liz who's living it large in the States, and for Sam
who's hotting up the beaches in Dubai. Live your dreams,
ladies, and thanks for being such fab friends.
Also for Jan and Peggy, for quietly supporting my writing. It doesn't go 
unnoticed!
A LEISURE BOOK®
April 2007
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is 
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and 
neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped 
book."
Copyright ©2007 by Sarah Pinborough
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in 
any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, 
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the 
written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN-10: 0-8439-5896-0 ISBN-13: 978-0-8439-5896-6
The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of 
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
vii 
We may be dead and we may be gone
But we will be, we will be, we will be, right by your side
Until the day you die.
This is no easy ride.
--The Smiths
viii 
The Taken
ix 
Sarah Pinborough
x 
The Taken
1 
Chapter One
The air hung invisibly heavy, dragging downward from the sky, its weight almost 
humming with the tension of an approaching breaking point. There was a storm 
brewing, the kind that hadn't come to this sleepy part of Somerset for years, or 
so it seemed to Mary as she wheeled the last barrowful of mowed grass to the 
compost heap, or "compost mountain," as she liked to call it, glad that at sixty 
she was still able to do these things for herself without a twinge or an ache. 
She smiled. Well, maybe just one or two nagging aches that set in a little 
later, but never too painful to dull her warm glow of satisfaction; in a weird 
way, maybe they even heightened it slightly.
Despite the discomfort caused by sweat that clung to her like a second skin 
unwilling to be shed, Mary's spirits were high. After getting Paul's party 
decorations up, Alexandra would be making them both a cool gin and tonic, 
waiting for her aunt to come in and be amazed at what could be done with a few 
streamers
2 
and balloons if you had that special creative touch, and maybe her smile would 
light up a little like it used to in the days before Ian left. Twenty-seven was 
too young to be carrying that much pain around with you like lead on your back, 
and Mary feared the strain was beginning to show. Her niece had lost weight over 
the last few months, and it seemed at times that Alex had become a reserved 
shadow of her former self, all that beauty and brightness bound up inside, 
afraid to be released. Maybe Paul coming would do her some good; maybe she'd 
open up to him.
Pushing the low-hanging leafy branches aside, Mary wheeled the barrow forward 
into the hidden space that Paul had called "Pooh Corner" when he'd been 
little--a long time ago now, her bouncing boy was forty today--preparing her 
shoulders and thighs for the sudden push up the side of the heap of fresh grass 
to dump her load over the back.
Out of the corner of her eye, in that space where on clear winter mornings the 
light came pushing through the far side of the trees like one of those crazy 
laser shows, she could make out the worn shapes of the headstones in the 
graveyard on the other side of her land. Sometimes the peaceful sight of them 
would make her stop and think about the nature of time, and how it sped past so 
quickly, the questions bubbling in her brain. Where had those years gone between 
when Paul was ten and now, and would he bury her there amongst family and 
strangers when her race came to its inevitable end?
Yes, sometimes it would make her stop and think. But not this time. This time 
her eyes froze like the rest of her, confused for a moment, vision fixed on the 
pile of
3 
grass. No, not the grass at all, but what was on top of it, what hadn't been 
there ten minutes before when she'd emptied the lawnmower last, and what 
shouldn't, couldn't possibly be there. Her shaking arms released the metal 
barrow, which banged heavily into her knee as it dropped, and deep in her mind 
she knew there'd be a nasty black bruise blooming there the next day, but right 
then, right in that silent moment of stopped time, she couldn't feel a thing as 
the past raced forward to meet the silent, twisted present.
The small red sandal sat on the bed of sweet-smelling cuttings, polished and 
shining, untarnished by mud or blades of murdered grass, as if deposited from 
above, a gift from the angels. Staring at the shoe that had been out of fashion 
for thirty years, Mary felt her breath catch in her throat. So time was moving, 
not stopped at all, but pouring out slowly like glue, savoring itself, allowing 
Mary the possibility of seeing everything, every color in the trees, the leaves 
and the thousands of different shades in the leather. Who could have put it 
there? Who would have? No one. Not after all this time. Needing to touch it, 
needing to feel its reality, its dead flesh next to her skin, she reached slowly 
forward, her hand shakily stretching out into the tunnel of her vision.
The giggle slashed the silence and Mary spun round, a whimper escaping her. 
Branches rustled, first to her left, and then moving back behind her, back to 
the other side of the compost heap, where the long, tired limbs of the trees 
almost touched the ground of the graveyard, no hedge required to define the 
boundary. Slowly turning, her feet shuffling over the dead wood, Mary's eyes 
widened. It can't be. It just can't be.
4 
At the bottom of the crippled tree in front of her, in the gap between branches 
and the hallowed ground, she could see the lower half of a small girl, dressed 
in a perfectly pleated green kilt, the upper torso hidden from view.
The scalpel of memory sliced into her brain, sharp and painful. The giggle came 
again as Mary's eyes dragged themselves down, past the pink skin of young 
almost-chubby knees, to the high white socks, and then downward, knowing what 
she was going to see, one foot shoeless, the other strapped up in a perfectly 
polished red sandal. Standing and staring at this surreal snapshot, something 
stirred inside Mary, a coiled snake waiting to strike, and if her frozen face 
could have moved, she would have frowned. The terrible familiarity of the 
clothes and the shoes itched inside Mary and she could almost taste the child's 
name in her mouth before she whispered it.
"Melanie Parr."
The giggle came again from somewhere out of sight, and Mary moved to take a step 
backward, to get help, help for or from what she didn't know. The voice that 
came through the branches lilted childishly.
"I lost my shoe, Mary. Have you got it? Have you got my shoe? I'm cold without 
it. You've made me cold, Mary." The reproach in the voice was clear, the 
sentiment jarring with the young giggle.
Shrieking, Mary stumbled over a branch behind her and fell forcefully to the dry 
ground, the shudder that spread through her bones making her bite down on her 
tongue, her mouth filling with the taste of metal as she bled.
"I've come back, can't you see?" The quiet voice
5 
barely carried in the heavy air, but Mary flinched as she listened. "I've come 
back home. The Catcher Man brought me home."
As the giggles got louder and harsher, too harsh for a ten-year-old, a 
forty-year-old ten-year-old, Mary knew that if she didn't get away right then 
she never would, she'd go crazy, really never-come-back-down crazy, and 
squeezing her eyes shut, she dragged herself backward until she was out of the 
wall of branches and in the fresh air of her garden, pulling herself to her 
numbed, heavy feet and running like she hadn't in years, letting the scream 
trapped inside her out, giving it free rein in the humid air, knowing that no 
matter how hard she yelled, it would never be able to take all of the madness 
with it.
6 
7 
Chapter Two
The party decorations hung bright around the farmhouse lounge, their 
cheerfulness all out of place, and Alex wished she'd thought to rip them down 
before Mary's son Paul had got there. Not that she'd really had a moment to. By 
the time she'd checked the gardens for herself and called the doctor for Mary, 
it was clear that her aunt needed her by her side. Dr. Jones had left an hour 
before, leaving her only minutes to ring around and hastily cancel guests before 
her cousin's car pulled up the graveled drive, Paul and his friend Simon 
climbing out of the MG clutching bottles of champagne and wearing beaming grins 
that didn't fade until they were close enough to read Alex's taut expression.
Still, she thought, as her eyes rested on the unspun glitter ball hanging from 
the central oak beam, she should have pulled them down. This wasn't the kind of 
birthday welcome Paul had been expecting, but, hey, when does life ever deliver 
what you expect?
Cursing herself for the bitterness in the thought, she
8 
picked up the decanter, poured out three large brandies, and sighed. Hopefully 
Aunt Mary would be sleeping by now. She'd looked like she might be when Alex had 
poked her head inside the door a few minutes before, and the doctor had given 
her a shot of something that must have been pretty strong because her Aunt had 
calmed down pretty much the instant the needle came out of her arm. He'd left 
some sleeping pills just in case, but didn't think Mary would need them. Not 
that night anyway.
Alex hadn't liked the way he'd suggested that maybe she should try them herself. 
As if sleeping pills could help her. Well, maybe they could, but she hadn't 
liked the expression on his face when he'd suggested it. Too much kindness. Too 
much pity. She'd pretty much booted him out the door after that. Frozen him out 
would have been more like it. She smiled a little. There was still some spirit 
left inside her after all.
Turning her mind back to the present, she handed the two men a glass each and 
took a sip from her own, enjoying the burn. Paul's face was full of worry, the 
lines etched into his skin making him seem older than his forty today badge 
declared he was. She met his gaze as she spoke.
"There was nothing there. I went and looked for myself straight away. I searched 
the whole garden and the orchard--I even checked the barns. Nothing." She 
shrugged. "I guess a child could have run away quickly, but I'm sure I'd have 
seen her if she'd been there."
Alex felt awkward talking about this in front of a stranger, but glancing at the 
tall man next to her cousin, it seemed as if Simon's concerned expression
9 
was pretty genuine. And this couldn't be too comfortable for him, either.
Paul sat down on the sofa by the unlit fireplace and stared into its lifeless 
heart. "Did you call the police?"
"And say what? No. It would have to be a local girl to play a trick like that, 
and nearly all the kids around here are either teenagers or toddlers. It's not 
as if the village has got the largest population in the country. We're not 
exactly on the beaten track out here. I don't think Watterrow is even featured 
on maps outside of Somerset."
She perched on the wing of the armchair and nodded at Simon to take the other 
sofa seat. Noticing how blue his direct gaze was behind his glasses, Alex 
thought that in another lifetime she might have been tempted to pay him a little 
more attention. Handsome, but not too handsome. Charming in an unaffected way. 
Despite his almost boyish face, she figured he was maybe only a couple of years 
younger than Paul. Thirty-six, thirty-seven? Yeah, who am I trying to kid? she 
thought. In another lifetime, she'd have been upstairs in the bathroom 
frantically reaching for her lipstick. The wistful thought was bittersweet and 
she pushed it away, suddenly rebelliously pleased that she hadn't had time to 
change into her party dress and do her hair. The romance days were over; she 
couldn't escape that and it was easier for her just not to be noticed. She 
didn't want his attention.
"Anyway, it was weirder than that. I mean, she was hysterical, but I think she 
knew the girl. She was screaming a name. I couldn't catch it because she was 
pretty incoherent, but I'm sure she was trying to tell me a name." She paused 
and shrugged. "I just wish I
10 
could understand why it upset her so much. A shoe and a girl, and that's if 
there was anything out there at all. I don't get it. I just don't get it."
A shadow passed across Paul's face. "How's she been? Has she been all right 
otherwise?"
Alex could see the fear in her cousin--the fear people carry with them for their 
elderly loved ones. Although the way she figured it, the fear was more for 
themselves than for any mother or father--fear of dealing with the loss, of 
having to watch the suffering, of being forced to face the inevitable future 
that comes cold, bleak, and inconsequential, stealing away our tomorrows with 
the blink of a random eye, with no "get out of jail free" card, no matter how 
special you think you are. Seeing all that in Paul's expression, Paul, who had 
lost his painful childhood shyness to become a chubby, confident, successful 
newsman with the world at his feet, made Alex's insides ache. She had a feeling 
she'd somehow got older than Paul in the last few months.
"She's been fine. Look, let's not blow this out of all proportion. Sometimes 
people just think they see things that aren't there. She'd been out in this 
sticky heat all afternoon gardening and she was really excited about you coming 
home. On top of that, she didn't have her glasses on. Your eyes and brain can 
play funny tricks on you from time to time. There doesn't always have to be a 
reason."
"She's right, mate."
Alex looked up and felt a vague disappointment that Simon didn't glance at her 
while he spoke, his slight London accent dancing in step with the depth of his 
tone.
"I know what it's like when I don't wear mine." He
11 
nodded out the window. "Especially in this kind of weather. The whole world is 
different. Everything looks strange." He smiled a cheeky, innocent grin. "You'd 
laugh at some of the things I've thought I'd seen, only to find out the monster 
is just a sweater I'd chucked behind the sofa or something."
Paul stared at his friend for a second, his serious expression unreadable. He 
shook his head before he spoke, almost with disappointment. "Let me get this 
straight. You're a hard-hitting foreign correspondent, and you still believe in 
monsters behind the sofa? And you're trying to make me feel better? Now I've got 
two people to worry about. Fantastic."
Simon threw his head back and laughed, a throaty open sound, and Alex found 
herself joining in, not able to do anything but, and within seconds the three of 
them were giggling like kids, maybe more than the joke deserved, but enjoying 
the breaking of the somber tension. Her own breath hitching as she laughed, she 
watched Paul snorting into his brandy and felt so happy to see him again, the 
warmth bubbling up inside her. It was good to see him, despite the afternoon's 
events, despite everything, and it was good to feel good.
A big part of her had been dreading the weekend, the energy of it all, the 
pretending to be fine, but now that it had arrived, now that Paul was there, she 
was glad she hadn't taken the decorations down. Glad she'd made the effort. Paul 
was the closest thing to a big brother that she had, and she loved him and Mary 
more than anyone in the world. Pushing herself off the armchair, she grabbed him 
around the neck and kissed him, hoping he wouldn't notice the tears finding life 
in her eyes.
"Happy fortieth, Paul. Happy birthday."
12 
12
13 
Chapter Three
The ravenous thunder prophesied the damage seconds before lightning flashed 
bright and ripped through the dark countryside sky. Alex hastily swallowed a 
couple of large pills with a gulp of red wine and pushed the packet back into 
the depths of her jeans pocket before leaving the kitchen and joining the two 
men gazing out of the patio doors at Mother Nature's fireworks. Mary was still 
sleeping, but the three of them had fried themselves steaks and eaten them with 
mushrooms and heaps of salad, before slicing open Paul's chocolate cake. Alex 
had sent the other two away to the lounge while she loaded the dishwasher, and 
it was seconds afterward that the storm had arrived over the village, the men 
turning out the lights to fully see the dazzling show above their heads.
Despite the exhaustion that filled her thin frame and the pain that was creeping 
back, niggling at her insides, the pills a reminder of its unwanted presence,
14 
she stood breathless for a second, her eyes no doubt glowing in wonder like 
those of Paul and Simon beside her. For a few moments they had been transported 
back to their childhoods, a time when pleasure and fascination could be found in 
the simplest things. Light exploded ahead of her, stabbing downward into the 
dark fields that surrounded them, and she hoped that old Tucker had brought his 
animals in. Nothing should have to face such angry beauty, no sheep or cow, 
however doomed to slaughter, should be out there on a night like this, shivering 
and helpless and full of fear. Not on a night like this. This was a night when 
anything could happen. Anything at all. The world was off-kilter, this time not 
just for her, but for everyone. She could feel it crawling on her skin.
Behind the noise of the battle that raged above them was the steady thrum of the 
rain hitting the glass and the ground outside, a noise more like that of the 
harsh hammering of hailstones than the normal gentle patter. Despite the warmth 
inside the old house, Alex shivered. The world had gone wild outside, 
unrecognizable from the sedate, gentle and ordered country of yesterday. For 
some reason, when she spoke, her words came out in a whisper.
"I can't remember ever seeing it like this. If it goes on too long, the river 
will flood like it did in '89." She smiled up at her cousin. "Do you remember, 
Paul? Everyone the other side of The Rock was trapped. The road was completely 
submerged. You piggybacked me through the water. I thought it was wonderful."
Paul's teeth shone in the gloom as he grinned. "Yes, I remember. You were only 
about ten. Skinny little thing with that awful fringe. I think I'd just finished 
University.
15 
Must have been when I'd got that job on the terrible local rag."
"Does the river flood often?" The ice tinkled in the glass as Simon sipped his 
whisky, and feeling him looking at her rather than her cousin, Alex fought the 
pleasant tingle that threatened to overrun her body. She shook her head.
"No, not really. A little bit most years, but not like that. I don't think it 
ever broke its banks like that before or since." She smiled up at him. "Until 
tonight, maybe."
"There was one other time."
The papery voice behind them was so unexpected that Alex almost dropped her 
wine.
"When Paul was ten. The day before his birthday, in fact. Thirty years ago. The 
river came alive that time. Nothing could stop it. Nothing. The whole village 
was cut off for days."
"Jesus shit, Mum."
Almost giggling at the childlike tone in Paul's voice, Alex turned. The sight of 
her aunt stopped the laughter dead, aborted it in her throat. Mary had aged 
twenty years or more since going outside to mow the lawns that afternoon. That 
energetic, smiling woman, defiant of the restrictions of age, had gone, and Alex 
felt with a cold certainty that sent a wave of nausea through her that she was 
gone for good. In her place stood a stranger: a fragile, elderly woman clad only 
in a sleeveless cotton nightie, the flesh of her upper arms hanging loosely from 
her bones, the skin on her face sagging downward as if having given up the fight 
to stay lifted and young. Her eyes seemed too wide as she gazed out past the 
living and into the night.
"Are you okay, Mary?"
16 
Not getting any reply, Alex glanced up at Paul, but he didn't move, so she 
reached for his hand, as much for her own comfort as for his. Simon had gone to 
the other side of the room to where the light switches were, but as he reached 
for them Mary's shrill voice stopped his hand.
"No! No lights!"
Simon looked over at Paul and then Alex, who shrugged at him. If Mary didn't 
want light, then that was fine. No lights. Looking at her barely recognizable 
aunt she ached inside--a long, tired, cold ache that filled the hollow inside 
her. There wasn't much more she could take. There wasn't much more left in her 
to give herself, let alone Mary. It made her feel bad, but it was the truth and 
there was nothing she could do about it. What the hell had happened today? What 
had Mary seen out there?
At least she was calm and coherent, something Alex hadn't really expected. 
Taking a seat on the sofa, she pulled Paul down beside her and glanced around 
for Simon, who had vanished. Where had he gone? She smiled humorlessly inside. 
Probably got back in that flash little car and shot off at a hundred miles an 
hour, storm or no storm, and she wouldn't blame him for it. They probably seemed 
like a bunch of crazies to him. And he didn't even know the half of it. Yeah, 
that was it. He'd gone back to London. Back to sanity.
When he came back into the room carrying a tray with a mug and a plate on it a 
tear pricked the back of her eye and she rubbed at it angrily. There were too 
many tears these days and no point in them.
"There you go." Simon's voice was gentle as he set the tea and sandwich down on 
the small table next to
17 
Mary's chair before withdrawing quietly back to his seat a little away from Alex 
and Paul, as if aware of his intrusion in this mad family reunion.
Watching his broad frame sinking into the shadows, a dark outline in the gray, 
Alex found herself wondering about this quiet man whom Paul obviously held in 
high enough regard to bring home. Her cousin never brought colleagues back to 
the farm; it was his sanctuary against London and all its harshness, and Alex 
sometimes thought that as much as he obviously loved journalism, Paul had no 
love for journalists and their inherent ruthless arrogance. Yes, there must be 
something about this man, something special, for Paul to have felt okay about 
inviting him along for his birthday. She let out a short sigh. He wouldn't be so 
eager to do that again. Not after today.
Mary shifted slightly in the armchair, one hand rising slowly to her hair, 
absently fiddling with a loose strand, ignoring' the food and drink beside her. 
"Yes," she said calmly, her head tilting slightly as her soft words cracked 
through the silence. "Yes, thirty years ago the river rose and burst its banks, 
washing them away to nothing, just like it's probably doing tonight out there in 
the dark." She seemed to be speaking more to herself than anyone else. "Funny 
how I could have forgotten the weather that day. I should have thought of it. I 
should have felt it this morning." Pausing, she let out a small unsettling 
sound, somewhere between a sigh and a giggle that sent a shiver down Alex's 
spine. "Today had the same smell as that day. Sweet and heavy. How did I 
forget?" Her hand had left her hair, but still hovered, forgotten. "The little 
girl in the garden was Melanie Parr."
The change in direction confused Alex slightly, but
18 
Paul's hand twitched violently in hers before he withdrew it, making her look up 
at him. The name meant nothing to her, but it obviously did to Paul. He drained 
his glass before speaking, spitting the words out like chunks of ice.
"Don't be ridiculous. It couldn't have been." Although her son was glaring at 
her, Mary was oblivious, gazing out into the night, a small, scared smile on her 
face. "Melanie Parr... That child could have been anyone, if there was a girl 
there at all." Paul's voice lowered to a mutter. "You're sounding like a crazy 
person."
Alex looked from cousin to aunt, her curiosity rising despite herself, hating 
the feeling that she was suddenly as much an outsider as Simon. What had got 
into Paul, anyway? He never spoke to Mary like that, never. Why do it now when 
she'd had such a terrible day? She reached for his arm. "Who's Melanie Parr?"
"She was in my class at school." He wasn't looking at her, and Alex frowned 
slightly as she heard a hint of his long forgotten stutter behind his words. How 
could the mention of one name shake his confidence like that?
"It was a long time ago. I barely remember what she looked like. I'd forgotten 
about her."
Watching him gazing into the bottom of his glass, Alex rejected his words. She 
didn't believe him, and that realization felt as if the breath had been punched 
from her lungs. Her cousin had never lied to her, but she knew with the insight 
granted to those with nowhere left to hide that he was lying to her now. Paul 
closed her off; her gaze was drawn back to her aunt. Mary was nodding at nothing 
in particular, as if someplace where only she was, everything was making sense. 
One finger teased her bottom lip as she spoke.
19 
"She was a beautiful little girl. So perfect to look at. Of course, things that 
look so right invariably aren't. They can't be. Something is normally broken 
inside." She looked up at Alex directly this time, her eyes almost too full of 
clarity. "Like your mother. So gifted, so talented." Her gaze drifted to the 
grand piano that had been an ornamental relic since its owner had wasted away in 
the cottage at the other end of the village twenty-three years ago.
"And yet so unmeant to be."
Unmeant to be. Alex felt the fear of reality biting at her stomach and pushed it 
back, down into the very pit of herself, where it had lived and grown each day 
for months. She felt Simon's blue eyes fighting through the enveloping gloom to 
reach her, but didn't acknowledge him. Pity would be plentiful soon enough; she 
didn't want or need any extra now. Her mother was just a vague, elusive memory. 
A phantom. Mary and Paul, they were who'd raised her, all she'd ever had until 
Ian had come along and they'd dared to have dreams of a family of their own. 
Well, Ian had turned out to be a spineless bastard and the dreams had been 
sucked away from her like dust thrown against the wind. Yeah, Mary and 
Paul--they were all that mattered. There had never really been any space for the 
ghost of her mother, and certainly not now. She had been gone too long. So much 
dirt under the ground just a few hundred feet away in the old churchyard.
Paul got up and refilled his glass, his movement awkward and stiff, as if all 
his muscles were taut. "She wasn't like Aunt Alicia. N-n-n-not like her at all."
Shaking her head, Mary stared at her son's back.
20 
"Maybe not, but she was damaged all the same." Her eyes misted over, drawn back 
to the night outside. "She went missing on the day of that storm thirty years 
ago. No one ever found her. She disappeared as if she'd never existed. Most 
people decided she must have fallen into the river and drowned, but no one ever 
knew for sure. No body, no solution." Her breath seemed labored for a second. 
"All they found was one of her shoes. A red sandal. On the steep bank on the 
edge of the woods. It was amazing it wasn't washed away."
Alex's heart contracted. "Poor thing. No one should have to die alone and 
afraid. Especially a child." Her voice was barely above a whisper as she 
imagined the icy water beating the small girl into unconsciousness before 
sucking her into its fluid depths, any small cries for help lost in the rage 
around her. "She must have been terrified."
"Yes, she must." Mary nodded, but even through the shadows the satisfied, smug 
expression that seemed so contrary to the words was visible on her haggard face. 
"Yes, she must." For a long moment she said nothing more, the silence filled 
only with the rattle of nature at the windows, invisible greedy fingers seeking 
out any gap in the defenses of their fragile stronghold of brick and thatch.
"It was her I saw in the garden today. Melanie Parr. She's come back."
Paul spun round, taking angry strides toward his mother's shrunken figure, one 
shaking hand pointing at her. "No! That's not possible. She's dead." He grabbed 
Mary's shoulders. "She died thirty years ago. Jesus Christ, Mum!"
21 
Only one step behind him, Simon gently but firmly pulled Paul back to the sofa. 
"Take it easy, mate. Take it easy." Despite his apparent calm, Alex knew that 
her cousin's friend must have been shocked at his outburst. He had to be. She 
was. She'd never seen him act like that.
He's scared. Scared half to death. She watched Paul let out a deep trembling 
breath. Yeah, that's scared to death. That's something I can recognize. Why 
should he be so afraid? He should be calming his mother down, not adding to the 
hysteria.
Mary, however, seemed unaware of her son's protests as her eyes narrowed 
thoughtfully. "I should have known it was her. The minute I saw that shoe. I 
should have known. She said the Catcher Man brought her back." Her smile was 
edged with a frown.
Sitting on the edge of the settee, Simon leaned forward, the fingers of his 
large hands linking together. "Who's the Catcher Man?"
Despite himself, Alex could see he was getting drawn into the story. He was, 
after all, a journalist. Stories were their life's blood, and when he'd spoken 
this time, like the professional he was, he'd stolen the question from her lips.
"The Catcher Man doesn't exist," Paul said. "A long time ago he was a pagan 
figure that women who were having difficulty getting pregnant would go out in 
the rain and do various rituals to in order to conceive. But over the centuries 
his myth changed until he became something parents used to control their kids. 
Like a bogeyman. Don't wander off or the Catcher Man will get you. He steals 
lost children and then they're never found. That kind of thing. Silly stuff to 
make you 
22 
behave." Paul just sounded tired now, as if his small outburst had drained his 
reserves.
Slightly confused, Alex scanned the memories of her childhood. "I don't remember 
that one."
"You wouldn't, dear. After Melanie Parr disappeared no one wanted to tell it 
anymore. The threat had become real, you see. It appeared as if the Catcher Man 
had come to life. That's what the children thought and they were scared enough 
after that. We didn't need the story anymore. We didn't have the stomach for 
it."
Paul placed his empty glass on the coffee table in front of him. "Anyway, none 
of this matters. Whatever or whoever it was you saw in the garden, it wasn't 
Melanie Parr. She's been gone for thirty years. Dead and gone, more than 
likely."
Alex glared at Paul, annoyed and confused by this sudden stranger beside her, 
before speaking softly herself.
"He's right, you know, Mary. It couldn't have been that little girl. There are 
no such things as ghosts." She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "The dead are 
gone. You know that."
Her aunt's laugh drifted pity across to her. "Are they, Alex? Are they really? 
The ghosts live inside us; that's what I think. The dead never really leave us 
in peace." Her voice floated away, as if disembodied. "Sometimes, they feel so 
close I'm not sure where they end and we begin."
Alex shivered despite herself, and she was sure that next to her, Paul did the 
same.
"I don't think this sitting around in the dark is doing any of us any good." 
Simon had stood up and made his way to the far wall, flicking on the switches 
and filling
23 
the room with the relief of light. This time Mary didn't protest, but blinked, 
confused. Simon retook his seat and leaned forward.
"Listen, Mary. Alex and Paul are right. There are no such things as ghosts. But 
people do play tricks. Stupid tricks." He held his gaze steady, and Alex could 
see that he was calming her aunt with just his easy manner and gentle honesty. 
"Would anyone in the village want to play a trick on you? Do any of the children 
know about Melanie Parr's disappearance? Is there any way they could have found 
out about it recently? Kids can find all the wrong things funny sometimes."
"No. No one knows. No one could know. No one talked about it. Not after. It was 
easier to forget it ever happened." Mary smiled at some private joke squirming 
inside her. "We forgot it ever happened."
Moving to the chair, Alex sat on the arm and took her aunt's cold hand and 
slowly rubbed some warmth into it. "It'll all seem better in the morning. Once 
this storm has passed. It's too easy to be afraid in the dark." She knew the 
truth in those words only too well. Since sleep had started deserting her, she 
and the night had formed an uneasy truce, but despite their growing familiarity, 
she often felt terror gnawing at her in those silent hours spent listening to 
time ticking by. Feeling the chill in her heart and her aunt's hand, staring out 
at the storm, she knew that some things didn't get better in daylight. They just 
hid themselves well.
24 
24
25 
Chapter Four
It wasn't long after that conversation that they'd all headed off to bed, 
leaving the storm to continue without its audience. The atmosphere amongst them 
had changed after the conversation about the missing girl, and Alex was too 
tired to either deal with or think about Paul's sudden black mood. Whatever had 
happened with that Melanie Parr all those years ago had obviously affected him 
more than he was willing to let on, but if he didn't want to talk about it then 
that was up to him. She was sure they'd all feel better in the morning. 
Swallowing two more tablets of morphine, she crawled beneath her duvet. Well, 
all of them but her, that was. There would be no feeling better for her. Maybe 
an occasional "feeling better than yesterday," or "better than last week," but 
there was no getting better in her future. It was a downward slope ahead; the 
doctor had been particularly clear on that point. For the millionth time of the 
day, she bit back the panic and
26 
the tears and the self-pity until they settled down in the pit of her gut, not 
quite gone, but manageable.
You're still here now, girl. That's all that matters. One day at a time.
The duvet was cool as she pulled it under her chin, although the air in the room 
was muggy. Normally she would sleep with the window open, enjoying the feel of 
any breeze, especially on the warm summer nights. It was funny the simple things 
that she had learned to value, to appreciate for the first time after a lifetime 
of barely being aware of their existence, and a gentle breeze on a hot night was 
one of those things.
The air felt funny and she could smell the dampness in it, but it wasn't the 
normal clean damp of the country; it tasted almost dirty as she breathed it 
through her mouth. But then, maybe that was just the morphine, another one of 
its weird side effects. Sometimes, more and more as the days passed, she would 
get strange sensations in her skin, as if maybe a cat had brushed against her 
leg or someone was gently squeezing her arm, but there would be nothing there. 
Nothing but just another sign that her body was breaking down. Every day it 
seemed there was something new to deal with and soon she wasn't going to be able 
to hide it from people, especially Mary. She wasn't looking forward to that. 
That switch from being normal to being other in everyone else's eyes. Someone to 
be treated differently. Someone dying. As if it were never going to happen to 
them. But then, she'd never really contemplated it happening to her until it 
did. Life was like that. A motherfucker that kicked you in the face when you 
least expected it. Swearing was another thing that she'd learned to appreciate. 
The sheer rebelliousness of it helped with the fear.
27 
Unmeant to be. That's what Mary had said about her mother. Was that the legacy 
that Alicia had passed through her blood to Alex? The doctor had said that the 
cancer hadn't been hereditary, but who really knew. Maybe it was all just in the 
blood, little genetic time bombs waiting to go off when you least expect it. It 
had happened to her mother and now it was happening to her. The morphine and 
sedative were taking hold and for the first time in a long time, as she drifted 
into her restless sleep, she allowed her mind to wonder about the dead woman 
buried in the churchyard so very close, and just as she passed into 
unconsciousness Alex thought she could see her in a faded memory laughing over 
her bed. Or on reflection, maybe she was crying. There wasn't enough time to 
decide which before the blackness overwhelmed her.
"Don't you remember me? I couldn't move my legs. Look how they move now!"
Alex woke up with a start, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes immediately 
glancing around in the gloom for whatever had disturbed her. What was that? What 
had woken her so suddenly? Her hair sticking to her scalp with sweat, she pushed 
it out of her face as she sought out the glowing hands of the clock beside her 
bed. Three o'clock in the morning. Fuck. Her breathing slowing, she lay back 
down on the pillow, waiting for her internal disquiet to ease.
It must have been another dream. As if she weren't getting enough of those these 
days. Another side effect of the drugs were the nightmares. They normally 
involved people trying to bury her when she was dead, pushing her back into a 
coffin and whispering, "Relax,
28 
your time is up," and her screaming back at them that she was fine, she was 
still there, right up until they nailed the lid down and she would wake up, 
stifling a scream. Yeah, morphine couldn't kill all your pain; that was for 
sure.
The air still felt heavy and her mouth felt furry. Pushing herself up on her 
elbow, she took a sip from the water that had warmed in the glass by the bed. It 
was odd that she didn't remember the dream, though. Shaking some of her 
sleepiness away, she waited for her body to calm down. It wasn't real. Whatever 
had woken her wasn't real, just her ridiculous drug-fueled imagination. Still, 
she thought, lying back down, maybe not remembering was a blessing sometimes. 
There was only so much terror a girl could take. She could hear the rain still 
beating hard at the window, aggressively tossed at the glass by the wind. Maybe 
that was what had woken her. Or maybe Paul or Simon had got up to use the 
bathroom. The thought of the house full of other people was a comforting one, 
and she shut her eyes to try and get at least another two or three hours sleep.
The giggle came from the other side of the room, a little girl's laugh, and this 
time Alex sat bolt upright. What the fuck was that? Her heart began to pick up 
the pace again and her head darted to the noise as the lilting laugh came again, 
this time from her wardrobe. And then a few moments later from outside the 
window. Her spine rigidly straight, it felt as if she couldn't breathe, let 
alone move, but Alex could feel sweat forming on the palms of her hands as she 
gripped her duvet, ears straining. It was the drugs; that's what it was. It had 
to be. The morphine playing tricks on her.
For a few long seconds there was only the steady
29 
beat of the water on the window and her heart pounding; then lightning flashed 
angrily outside, illuminating the emptiness of the room. It's just the morphine, 
see. No more chuckles coming from the wardrobe. Get a grip on yourself. She 
fought back the urge to giggle herself, but then came the second flash of 
lightning, lighting up the room again, forming a halo around the little boy that 
stood at the end of her bed, one finger over his lips.
The small yelp her terrified body allowed to escape was drowned out by the roar 
of thunder, and with the next bright sheet of light that broke the sky, the boy 
was beside her, his finger covering her own lips. Squeezing her eyes shut, Alex 
screamed inside. It's just the morphine, it's just the morphine, but Jesus, his 
finger is so small and cold and damp, just like he'd been playing out in the 
rain. It feels so real. It all feels so real.
The sensation on her lips didn't change, and she forced her eyes open. It can't 
hurt you. It's not real. If you scream you'll wake the others up. You'll wake 
Mary up. She doesn't need this. Not now. Not after today. And if the others 
come, you may have to explain. Explain the pills and the reason behind the 
pills. And this isn't real. It can't be.
Still, when she saw the boy beside her, his face wet with rainwater, glancing 
fearfully over to the window, she had to bite the inside of her mouth to stop 
the sound from escaping. How could her imagination make something up like this? 
All this detail? The child was no more than ten, but his dark bowl haircut was 
like his clothes, all out of place, like something from the seventies. Even in 
the gloom she could make out the bright reds and yellows on his knitted tank top 
that sat
30 
over a wide collared shirt, patches of dried mud up the sleeves. Her mind felt 
hot. How come if his hands and face are wet, the mud is dry? Why did my head 
make that up? How can that be? How can any of this be?
Taking his finger back from her lips, the boy covered his ears with his fists 
and whispered. "She's hurting him. She's making him cry." His voice sounded 
congested, as if he needed his adenoids taken out but no one had ever gotten 
around to it. "I don't like it when she makes them cry. She's going to make him 
jump."
It's the morphine, kiddo. It's taking you on a trip. That's all it is. That's 
all it can be. Staring at him, she whispered back the only question she could 
think to ask. "Who are you?"
The answer was barely audible. "I don't remember. He keeps us in the storm." 
Glancing again at the window, at the weather on the other side of it, he leaned 
forward to get closer to her, and she realized he smelled the same as the air 
did earlier that night. Dirty and damp. "They don't know you can hear them. They 
don't know you're in between. Like us."
Staring at him, his words weird and meaningless, Alex could see how wide and 
scared his eyes were, and despite her own fear she almost wanted to touch him to 
see whether that garishly old-fashioned shirt felt as rough as she imagined it 
would.
But then the lightning flashed again and he was gone. The room was empty. She 
sat frozen, listening to the clock ticking out the seconds of her life for a 
full five minutes before she crept out of bed and over to the light switch and 
flicked it on. Warm yellow light filled the room, bringing with it normalcy and 
sanity. Leaning back against the bedroom door, Alex stared at
31 
the furnishings and empty spaces that she knew so well and finally let out her 
breath. God, that was weird. Too weird. Nightmares were one thing, but 
hallucinations? Those she could live without. Maybe the next night she'd halve 
the dose and see if it was any better.
Berating herself for the small edge of fear that came with the action, she 
flicked the switch again, sending the room back into darkness, and then jumped 
back into bed, curling up on her side under the duvet. Halfexpecting to hear 
more giggling, she was relieved to just have the company of the sounds of the 
rain. Tiredness washed over her as her body relaxed.
See? Just the morphine. Nothing more.
Allowing her eyes to shut, she drifted off to sleep, twitching slightly as her 
lips moved silently, unconsciously reciting the Lord's Prayer.
32 
32
33 
Chapter Five
"Our father who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come... Thy 
will be done..."
Reverend Barker is crying as he climbs the stairs of the old church up to the 
bell tower, which overlooks the village that has been his home for more than 
thirty years. The words come out in a spray of spit that mixes with the wet air 
around him. "On earth as it is in heaven." The village. His first parish. His 
last parish. His purgatory for a quarter of a century.
His feet slip on the old stone stairs and he falls heavily on one knee, the pain 
jarring up his body and forcing him to moan aloud. He has been unsure about what 
is real and unreal in the madness of the last few hours, but the sharp heat in 
his leg as he drags himself back to his feet is true, as is the feel of the 
rough wall under his fingertips, and he dimly accepts what is happening. The 
devil has come for him. And with that acceptance he realizes that he's been 
waiting for it to happen for many years.
34 
Outside, the gray of dawn is starting to break despite the thick clouds and 
heavy rain and as he reaches the top he can hear laughter from downstairs, and 
the sound of one shoe tapping against the stone as she comes up after him. 
"Don't you remember me? I couldn't move my legs. Look how they move now!"
Her giggle is young and full of malice and glee and empty emotions that she 
shouldn't know at that age. That no one should know. Listening to her approach, 
he doesn't even realize he's still reciting the Lord's Prayer, and even if he 
did he wouldn't expect it to bring him comfort or any hope of salvation. The 
Lord has abandoned him. He'd abandoned him a long time ago. He'd seen what 
they'd done, and for the past thirty years Reverend Barker has known he'd been 
speaking sermons in a soulless church that his disgusted God has vacated.
Still, climbing onto the small raised wall and clinging to the side, he feels a 
wave of self-pity rush through him.
I didn't know what else to do! I was very young! I didn't know what else to do! 
Forgive me!" Whether he's speaking to her or his God he's unsure. Whichever can 
give him the opportunity of salvation.
Looking down, he is sure that in the gloom he can see children peering out from 
behind the gravestones. A few are smiling up at him, unpleasant smiles, their 
teeth and eyes glinting sharply in the pale light, but others are hiding their 
faces or covering their ears. He doesn't know which group terrifies him most. 
Rain stings his eyes. It is madness, of course. All madness. It has to be. The 
madness of guilt catching up with him. Below, a boy in a baseball cap, sitting 
cross-legged on a tomb so old that the name has worn away long ago, waves and 
winks, his finger curling, signaling for the vicar to come.
35 
"There is always a choice, Reverend. Everyone always gets a choice." Her voice 
is young and playful, yet so very vile. The devil's voice. Squeezing his eyes 
shut, he presses his face into the granite. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't 
need to. He knows she'll have one shoe on and one shoe off, her knee-high white 
socks pulled neatly up to her knees under her tartan skirt. Her blond hair will 
be perfect and her eyes clear and innocently blue. Just as she was then. Just as 
she always will be. For ever and ever, amen.
"Now, your choice... "she purrs almost seductively, the tone jarringly wrong in 
a child, "is do you want to jump, or do you want me to push you?" She giggles 
again. "You see? Everyone has a choice. Even you."
Tears are running down his face, and keeping his eyes closed, not wanting the 
last thing he sees to be her or any of the children-things below, he forces his 
shaking fingers to loosen their grip and lets himself fall forward.
"Thy will be done..." The words are lost in the rain as he hits the ground, 
snapping his spine. And then there is silence.
36 
36
37 
Chapter Six
Dawn was breaking when Alex opened her eyes, still tired but knowing that sleep 
had gone again for another day. It didn't stop her lying there for another ten 
minutes and trying to drift off, but as it did every morning, the panic 
eventually took hold, Dying. I'm dying. Really dying, and the only way she could 
deal with it was to get up and do something. But shit, she was exhausted.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she grabbed her dressing gown from 
the back of the door and crept down to the kitchen. Coffee. That's what she 
needed. And maybe some toast. Something to shake away the unsettled feeling that 
had been left behind by the weird dream or whatever it was she'd had in the 
night. The memory of the whole surreal experience hadn't faded like dreams 
normally do, and she could still almost feel that cold finger on her lips.
Sighing, she waited for the kettle to come to a boil on the old stove and then 
poured herself a very strong
38 
coffee laden with sugar. She'd be buzzing for hours on that amount of caffeine, 
but at least she'd feel awake. Leaning against the warmth of the oven, for 
comfort more than a need for the heat, she gazed aimlessly out into the gloomy 
day. The rain was still coming down hard, and it didn't look like it was likely 
to stop, but the wind seemed to be dropping. For a while at least. Not that she 
really minded the rain. There was something special about summer storms. 
Something outside of normal that she'd always loved. Yes, she loved the hot, 
clear days best, but if she couldn't have those, then storms would do.
At six a.m. she'd eaten some toast, emptied the dishwasher from the previous 
night, and was about to go upstairs and shower when Simon wandered into the 
kitchen, dressed but disheveled and waving his mobile phone in the air at about 
shoulder height.
Alex smiled. "You're dreaming if you think you'll get a signal on that thing out 
here."
Glancing up, obviously surprised to see her there, Simon almost dropped the tiny 
handset, and this time she couldn't help a laugh. "Sorry I startled you. I'm an 
early riser. Do you want a coffee?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm not very good at lying in myself. Too many nights spent in 
hotel rooms around the world and having to report at god-awful times in the 
mornings." His own smile was slightly sheepish as he sat down, but Alex found 
she liked it. She also liked the way his hair was still ruffled from sleep and 
blond stubble was starting to come through on his chin. Great, she thought, 
absently finger-combing her own long dark mane into some semblance of tidiness, 
just the 
39 
complication I need. An attractive reminder of everything that couldn't be.
Glancing at the phone he'd tossed down on the table, she couldn't help but 
wonder who he'd needed to call at this time in the morning. Probably a 
girlfriend. In fact, definitely a girlfriend. Somehow, the idea of him being a 
taken man made her feel better. And anyway, after seeing her first thing in the 
morning, he wouldn't exactly be finding her very sexy. She was well aware of the 
bags under her eyes and the tiredness that clung to her skin, and the pajamas 
she'd chosen to wear were hardly adding to her sophisticated image.
As she poured the water into his mug and slid it over to him, the checked 
trousers and top felt all too obviously awful. But then style hadn't really been 
at the top of her list of considerations recently. Biting her lip, she was angry 
at herself. Why the hell did she care, anyway? What would be the point of him 
finding her as attractive as she did him? It would all just end in more pain for 
her, which she could live without on top of everything else. Live without. Live 
without or die without.
He added a sugar to the mug. "Is the signal bad round here then?"
"Well, the phone companies will tell you differently, but you can barely get a 
signal in the village on a clear blue-skied day." She nodded toward the window. 
"But in this, you've got no chance."
"Christ, how great is that. Obviously all us Londoners would go into complete 
mental meltdown at the thought of no mobile phones, but there is something 
appealing about a life that quiet."
40 
Grinning, she put two slices into the toaster for him and drawled in her 
strongest Somerset accent, "Well, we may be slightly backward down here, but we 
do have landlines. There's one over on the wall by the fridge if you want to use 
it." She raised an eyebrow. "Cordless and everything."
"Thanks." He smiled again. "And sorry if it sounded like I was accusing you of 
still burning witches down here."
"Ah, but we do. Although only on Tuesdays."
"Well, that's a relief." He held the handset to his head for a moment or two, 
then quizzically clicked the receiver button down. "I think you may have spoken 
a little too soon about the phones. It seems as if this one isn't working." 
Swapping the phone for the plate of toast, Alex held it to her own ear. He was 
right. There was no dial tone; just emptiness.
"I guess the storm must have brought the lines down." She clicked the button 
again, just to double check. "It was pretty fierce out there last night." 
Checking her watch, she saw it was coming up for half-past six. "Look, why don't 
you eat your breakfast, and then at seven we'll wander down to the shop. Alice 
is always open by then and we can try her phone. It may be just the lines up 
this end of town that are gone."
"Sounds like a good plan. It'd be nice to take a look around, as well. Driving 
up yesterday I could see how beautiful this part of the world is. I bet even in 
this weather the village is pretty stunning."
"Oh, yes," she grinned, placing her plate and mug in the sink and heading 
upstairs for the shower. "We're full of country charm down here."
"I can see that." He retorted to her retreating figure,
41 
and Alex allowed herself a brief moment of happiness at the mild flirting. Maybe 
the pajamas weren't that bad after all.
She quickly showered and pulled on her jeans, a white T-shirt, and a sweater 
before scraping her still-wet hair back into a ponytail. There was no point in 
drying it, because the minute she stepped outside it would be soaked again. For 
a second she glanced at her unused makeup bag, then grabbed it and shoved it 
into the top drawer of her dressing table, out of sight. There was no point in 
it. He'd made one flirtatious remark, and all her resolve had dissolved as if 
she was a giggly schoolgirl without a care in the world. Yanking her socks on, 
she dragged her oldest sneakers out from the bottom of the closet. And that 
definitely wasn't how it was. Another two months or so and then it was seriously 
downhill for her. And there was no point in trying to forget it. As if she ever 
bloody could.
By the time she got back downstairs, Paul was shuffling round the kitchen, still 
sleepy, but pulling eggs, bacon and sausages out of the fridge while sipping 
coffee. Simon's hair was neatened and glasses back on, the stubble had 
disappeared, and Alex threw him one of Paul's big coats from behind the door.
"That should fit you. It'll keep the rain out better than the jacket you brought 
with you."
Simon glanced at Paul's thickening waistline. "Yep, there should be plenty of 
space in there for me. Especially with the way he's been watching his figure 
recently."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Very funny. Nothing wrong with having a bit of padding. 
A lot of women like it, you know. And anyway, this breakfast isn't just for me. 
I
42 
thought Mum could probably do with something to eat. She didn't have anything 
last night."
"How is she?" The thought of Mary's experience in the garden reminded Alex of 
her own weird dream. Although hers was probably triggered by what Mary had said, 
she still felt unsettled by it.
"I popped my head in when I woke up, but she's still sleeping. I'll take her up 
a tray when it's done. Hopefully she'll be feeling better after a good night's 
rest."
"I'm sure of it," Alex said, not entirely convinced she felt it. Remembering how 
frail and fragile Mary had been when she'd come into the lounge the previous 
evening, it would be hard to imagine that she'd be back to normal overnight. 
Whether what she saw and heard in the garden was real or imagined, it had shaken 
her Aunt to the core. "Is there anything we need from the shop? If we're going 
down there anyway, I may as well get it now."
"Nope, we've got a fridge full of party food to eat our way through. Hopefully 
her phone line will be working." He tossed a lump of butter into the frying pan 
on the stove. "Not that I can see ours being down for long. Even out here in the 
deepest darkest countryside, the world won't leave you alone forever."
Alex grinned at Simon. "So I've explained. Okay, Paul, we'll see you when we get 
back." Kissing her cousin on the cheek, she pulled open the back door and 
stepped out into the rain, Simon following her.
Even before they'd reached the end of the gravel drive, the water had found its 
way inside her clothes, running in rivulets down from her chin and in through 
the gaps around her sweater and T-shirt. Although the wind had dropped, it was 
still blowing hard enough to push the rain through the material of her jeans, 
43 
making her legs itch slightly. Glancing at Simon, she could see that his tan 
chinos were also darkening.
"Maybe we shouldn't have bothered showering before we came out. I'm soaking 
already! Looks like you are too."
Simon nodded, his eyes squinting slightly. "Yeah, but at least it's not cold. I 
quite like summer rain."
Alex stared at him for a second before turning left to head down into the 
village. Great. He liked summer rain. Another thing they had in common. Looking 
down the steep uneven road, she watched the streams of water running down it, 
forming mini rivers in the battered concrete. "I hope you're shoes have got a 
good grip on them. If you fall over in this, then I fear you may be making your 
first trip into Watterow sliding on your ass."
"Thanks for that. I'll concentrate on staying upright."
"Good plan."
Focusing in the main on their feet, they walked down the steep hill, side by 
side, in a strangely comfortable silence. After passing the overgrown churchyard 
there were no other houses until they reached the outskirts of the tiny village 
about a quarter of a mile away, and it seemed to Alex as she looked down that 
the houses there were hidden in a haze of dropped clouds, only the occasional 
wall or chimney of dark gray stone standing out clearly against the lighter gray 
that surrounded them. The mist came halfway up the hill before it ran out of 
steam, beaten into submission by the constant heavy rain.
Maybe it was because of the dull light struggling to make it daytime, or maybe 
it was because of the sheer volume of water that had fallen, but the green of 
the
44 
leaves and fields around them sung out brightly, a thousand shades hitting the 
eye at the same time like a symphony of color. Paul and Simon could keep their 
big cities, Alex decided, sucking in the warm, wet air. Even in this gloom the 
countryside was more attractive than any concrete jungle could ever be. Looking 
over to the man next to her, she could see that he too was moved by the strange, 
dangerous beauty of the 
day.
Out in the farms dotted around the village, people would have been up and 
working for at least a couple of hours by now, but in the houses around them the 
residents would only just be stirring, and the cobbled streets were empty and 
silent as they trudged past the wooden sign welcoming them to Watterrow. On the 
other side of the village there was a newer one, black lettering on white metal, 
the kind seen all over Britain, another hint at the shrinking nature of the 
world, but this one had been in place for at least a hundred years. And it would 
be there long after Alex was gone. That much was for sure. She ran her fingers 
over its rough surface as she passed, just as she had since she was a child. 
There was a kind of comfort in the action that she couldn't quantify and didn't 
try to.
As they were swallowed up by the blanket of mist, the houses around them became 
clearer; walking through the main street, she could see lights coming on as 
people slowly woke up to the new day.
The shop was out toward the other side of the village and Alex quietly pointed 
out the interesting quirks of the town as they passed them. Buildings that had 
been there for hundreds of years ranging from the local pub, The Rock Inn, to 
the old schoolhouse, which was now the closest thing they had to a library. In 
the
45 
small square they saw the site of the original maypole, although there were 
rumors and legends, all joking aside, that it also had a more sinister history. 
It had been a place of trials and judgment when visiting magistrates or knights 
would pass through, and people would wreak their revenge on neighbors who'd done 
them wrong. If the records were to be believed, then plenty of locals had been 
hung and burnt there, suspected witches included.
She wasn't sure if he found the town and its history as engaging as she did, but 
he nodded and asked the occasional question.
"Hey, look at that."
This time it was Simon that was pointing something out to her, and Alex followed 
his gaze. It stopped at the corner of one of the narrow side streets that 
petered out at the edge of the bank of woods.
"Isn't that a bit odd?"
She stared. "Yes. Yes, it is."
There were two children standing in the rain face-to-face on the road, and as 
she and Simon got closer she could hear they were singing, or at least reciting 
something. The one whose back was to them was a girl, wearing a black tunic 
dress and thick tights over her thin frame, and the boy facing her had glasses 
on, as wet as Simon's were. Alex didn't recognize either of them, which was 
strange because she was pretty sure she knew all the kids in the village, at 
least by sight.
"What the hell are they doing out at this time in the morning? And not wearing 
coats?"
Simon shrugged. "God knows. My experience of children and parenting is pretty 
limited. Maybe they've snuck out."
46 
As Alex and Simon came up level with them, the words and the way the children 
were standing began to make sense. Neither child broke the rhythm as they turned 
their heads and smiled at the two adults.
"Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can. ..."
They clapped their hands together in patterns that are lost from memory as 
childhood passes, and as she walked by them, Alex found their smiles a little 
uncomfortable. Too confident. Not like children should be.
"Roll it and pat it
And mark it with B
And put in the oven for baby and me. ..."
The girl looked no more than fourteen and the boy was a couple of years behind 
her. His jeans and sweater didn't match with her more formal clothes either. 
Their voices jarred as they recited the nursery rhyme, her accent Liverpudlian 
but his more Yorkshire, the abrasiveness of each clashing with the other. So 
they weren't local. Maybe they were staying at The Rock or the caravan park a 
couple of miles away. Either way, Alex was pretty sure they shouldn't be out so 
early.
She paused and Simon stopped beside her as she called back to them. "Hey, kids. 
Do your parents know you're out playing? Don't you think you should go home and 
get some coats on?" She tried her best disarming smile, despite feeling suddenly 
awkward. Maybe it was the way the children were looking at each other and 
smiling as if there were a joke being played on her, and not a nice one at that. 
"You don't want to waste your holiday catching the flu, do you?"
The little boy stared at them for a moment, his 
47 
rain-splashed glasses making his eyes look blurry, and as both children broke 
off the game and rhyme in perfect synchronicity, he took a battered red New York 
Yankees baseball cap out of his back pocket and pulled it onto his head. The 
girl gave them one more smile and then took the boy's hand.
Alex expected them to turn around and head back to The Rock, but they didn't, 
instead breaking into a run up the side street that led nowhere but the woods. 
Beside her, she felt Simon's jacket brush close to her own.
"Do you think we should go after them?"
She shrugged. "I don't think so. She was old enough to look after him." Raising 
an eyebrow, she glanced up at the tall man. "And they weren't exactly friendly. 
My aunt would have crucified me for being so rude to adults when I was a child." 
She tried to make a joke to break the weirdness of the moment. "Kids these days, 
eh?" But once again she'd been reminded of her strange experience in the night.
He nodded, but he was still staring after the children that had already 
disappeared into the woods, and Alex knew he was only half-listening. "You 
okay?"
Simon didn't speak for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, and then he met Alex's 
gaze. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. It's just that there was something familiar about 
that boy, and I can't put my finger on it. I can't possibly know him, but I feel 
like I do." He stared off into the distance again for a minute and then shook 
himself. "But I guess he might just have had one of those faces."
A thought came to Alex. "I wonder if it was one of those kids that played the 
trick on Mary yesterday." Almost as soon as she'd vocalized it, she dismissed 
the idea. How the hell would they have known about
48 
Melanie Parr? Or the Catcher Man? Still, it was more credible than Mary thinking 
the little girl's ghost had come back.
Continuing on their way, the silence that had been so comfortable now seemed 
deafening, the rain like a shroud, and Alex was relieved when they climbed the 
short steep hill up to the store.
"Here we are."
Alice Moore's store was an all-in-one that served as the local post office and 
as a grocery shop with all the basic essentials. Despite her advancing age and 
generally nervous disposition, she had a good head for business, and over the 
past few years she'd increased her stock to ensure that everyone in the 
village's pennies came into her till. Along one wall at the back was her DVD 
rental selection, and she'd also leased a Basic Baker, which cooked hot rolls, 
baguettes, and pies. The smell when you walked in was enough to make you leave 
with a bagful of food that you weren't exactly sure you needed in the first 
place.
Alice was just turning over the sign to open as they stepped up, and she smiled 
at them through the glass before pulling the door open.
"My, you're up early, Alex."
Alex smiled to herself as Alice's eyes ran up and down Simon. Alice may have 
been talking to her, but her attention was definitely focused on the stranger 
beside her. The shop didn't yet have the smell of baked bread that would fill it 
by nine, but Alice herself was perfectly made up, her hair set neatly in those 
curls that women of the sixties preferred and stuck to as they'd aged. Her eyes 
flitted from Simon to Alex and back again, the question hovering obviously in 
the air.
49 
"Hi Alice." Alex kissed her on the cheek. She may as well put the old woman out 
of her misery, if only to make Simon feel more comfortable. "This is Simon, a 
friend of Paul's. He came down with him for Paul's birthday."
Smiling, the older woman shook his hand. "Welcome to Watterrow." Her brow 
furrowed. "And how's Mary this morning, Alex? Has her head cleared?"
Alex nodded, her stomach twisting slightly with the lie. Alice Moore was an old 
friend of her aunt's and had been on the list of guests invited to Paul's 
canceled birthday. A migraine had been the only excuse she'd been able to think 
of in the aftermath of Mary's panic attack when she'd had to ring round and 
cancel--it wasn't as if what had happened was anyone else's business. People 
were people wherever you went in the world, and underneath all the country 
charm, which big city dwellers like Simon were so entranced by, were all the 
personality traits that could be found everywhere else: pettiness, jealousy, the 
need to gossip.
But with country people, along with these traits came an ingrained toughness 
that was the result of living so close to nature. Country people dealt with 
things. Country people took care of their own business, and yes, that strength 
could work for you, but if someone chose to be cruel, well, they could do it 
better than most. She'd had her share of snipes in the pub and sharp, knowing 
looks when Ian left, not that anyone in town, apart from Dr. Jones, knew the 
cause of the split, but that didn't stop them passing judgments.
"She was still asleep when we left." Simon answered Alice smoothly. "I'm sure 
she'll be right as rain when we get back."
50 
"Well, that's all right then. As long as she's okay." Alice smiled. "Now, what 
can I get you two so early in the morning?"
"It's the phone line at the house," Alex said. 'It's not working; I think the 
storm must have done some damage somewhere. We just wondered if yours was still 
on and if Simon could use it to make a call."
"I'll pay you for it, of course," Simon added. "I just need to check into my 
answer service. I'm a freelance journalist and that's often the way clients get 
hold of me."
Alex bit back her grin. So he wasn't trying to call a girlfriend. Not that it 
meant that he definitely didn't have one, but she obviously wasn't top on his 
list of priorities. And whether he has a girlfriend or not shouldn't be on the 
top of yours. Making the point to herself, she took a step away from him.
Alice had scurried behind the counter and she lifted her own phone to her ear, 
pulling away the clip-on earring when she did so, the way actresses used to do 
in Hollywood films of the fifties. Alex had always found it strange that Alice 
took so much care in her appearance, but had never been married. Mary said that 
Alice had never really had an interest in going down that route, but between her 
warm heart and her precise, well turned-out looks, Alex had often wondered why. 
Still, you never could tell what went on in other peoples' lives. Alice must 
have had her reasons, and those were nobody's business but her own.
Tutting, Alice replaced the receiver. "Nothing, I'm afraid. It seems that mine's 
down too." She sighed and looked around her. "That's a pain. They'd better get 
it back on soon."
"Why? Are you expecting a call?" Alex didn't think
51 
Alice had ever lived outside Watterrow, so she couldn't see her social circle 
expanding much beyond its confines.
"No, no dear. It's this place. In the old days it wouldn't matter too much, but 
now just about everything relies on the phone working. The cash machine over 
there, and the chip and pin thing the bank persuaded me to install, they both 
need the phone running." She paused and looked out into the gloom. "Still, I 
should imagine that in this weather trade won't exactly be too brisk." She 
peered a little harder. "I actually think the rain is getting heavier again. 
Well, I'll be ..." Her face clouded over. "I wonder if the river will burst its 
banks."
Through the shop window, Alex watched the trees begin to sway. Alice was right. 
The storm was picking up again. "I should imagine it probably already is. The 
water has been coming down solidly for about twelve hours." She paused, and the 
next words came out quietly. "Aunt Mary said she could only remember one other 
time when the storms were this bad--about thirty years ago and the whole village 
ended up cut off." She glanced at Alice, whose hands had fluttered to the 
crucifix at her neck, fingering it absently. "She said a little girl went 
missing in it. Melanie Parr? Do you remember it?"
Alice's smile was tight. Maybe a little too tight, Alex thought. "Vaguely. I 
didn't have children, so I didn't know her very well. And it was all a very long 
time ago."
The small glass panes of the door had steamed up where Simon gazed through them. 
"Surely if it's likely that the village will get cut off, shouldn't we be 
evacuating or something?"
52 
Despite still fiddling with her cross and the collar of her blouse, Alice's 
smile was genuine. "That's not the way we do things out here. There's nothing so 
important in the towns that we can't live without them for a few days. And 
anyway, even if we did leave, where would we go?"
Simon grinned at her. "I guess you have a point." He turned to Alex. "And I 
think we should head back before this weather gets any worse."
Zipping their coats back up, right to the top this time, they stepped outside 
and left Alice staring quietly out at the angry weather.
53 
Chapter Seven
Hearing movement upstairs, along with the latest effervescent tune from Girls 
Aloud bursting into life on the bathroom radio, Kay Chambers put another two 
slices of bread in the toaster before buttering her own. Phil wasn't back from 
his conference in London for another two days, so it was just her and Laura in 
the house, which was nice occasionally. It would be even nicer in a couple of 
years when Laura would be a teenager and hopefully want to lie in bed for half 
the day during the holidays. At last Kay herself might get to sleep late, the 
bed all hers. Those days would be bliss, she decided, biting into her breakfast. 
Or better still, she might even get to go along with Phil and have a few days in 
the capitol. It had been years since she'd been to London, and as much as she 
loved being a country girl, the buzz of the big city was great every now and 
then. Although now that the big four-oh was looming, she might not have the 
energy to keep up. Forty. Just where the hell did the years go to?
54 
Smiling, she heard the bathroom door opening upstairs and Laura trudging down 
the stairs. Kay had a feeling that her daughter had been lying in bed awake 
since before seven waiting for her mother to get up, probably already eager to 
ring her friends and sort out their plans for the day. Over her head came a thud 
from the spare room as if something had fallen heavily to the floor, but Kay 
didn't even look up. Everything in the house creaked and moaned with movement 
and sometimes it did it just because it felt like it. But then, the house was a 
hell of a lot older than her or anyone else in Watterrow, so she figured it had 
the right to a little ache or pain every now and then.
"Morning, honey, there's some toast on for you. And tea in the pot if you want 
it."
"Thanks, Mum." Laura, already in her jeans and T-shirt, ready for the day ahead, 
bounced to the fridge and pulled out the jam, spreading it liberally and messily 
over the hot bread. "Can I call Jenny and Jimmy and see what they're doing 
today?"
Kay smiled. "After your breakfast. It's only half seven, they can wait another 
ten minutes or so." She didn't worry about Laura ringing her friends so early. 
Dave Granville worked over at Tucker's farm so he'd have been up since around 
four, and with five children, the oldest being the twins, Jenny and Jimmy, who 
were eleven like Laura, it was unlikely that Emma would be in bed much beyond 
six. And anyway, sweet as the Granvilles were, Dave and Emma had an old 
fashioned country marriage. Kay would bet that Emma got up at four and made Dave 
a full English breakfast before sending him off to the farm, just as her mum had 
done for her dad before her. Thinking of those five kids and early 
55 
mornings made Kay realize how lucky she was with her very loving husband and one 
child, who in the main was pretty much as good as you could expect a girl to be.
Looking out the window, the trees in the garden were bending slightly. She'd 
thought that the storm had peaked in the night, but maybe not. Watching the 
gloom and the rain hammering at the glass, she shivered in the warmth of her 
kitchen, a bad taste forming in her mouth. A dark memory flashed in her head, 
but she pushed it away before she even became aware of its existence.
"What are your plans for today? I don't think the weather's looking good for 
playing outside too much."
Laura shrugged, swallowing half a slice of toast in one mouthful, leaving Kay to 
wonder why her daughter wasn't the size of a house. "Don't know yet."
"Well, if you do go out, make sure you wear your coat. And don't go into the 
woods or down by the river."
Laura rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mum. I know."
Kay kissed her on the top of her head, enjoying its warm smell. "I know you 
know, but it doesn't stop me worrying about you."
The good thing about country children is that they were hardy but full of common 
sense. Yes, they probably would play in the rain, and be all the more healthy 
for it, but they wouldn't be stupid enough to go down to the overflowing river 
or up the steep wooded banks to the old tin mines. Not in this weather. They'd 
all seen what happened to sheep and cows that went astray, and it rarely had a 
happy ending. Her face was still pressed into her daughter's hair. Her baby 
smell was gone, but Kay reckoned if it came down to it, she would still be able 
to recognize Laura by scent alone.
56 
"If you get lost the Catcher Man will get you and then where will you be?" The 
words tumbled out in a whisper, and Laura wriggled out of her mother's suddenly 
too-tight grasp and twisted round, confused.
"The Catcher Man? Who's he?"
Kay stepped backwards, shocked by her own words. Where the hell had that come 
from? She tried to smile, but the expression wouldn't fit on her face. "Oh, 
forget it. It was something your gran used to say to me a long time ago when I'd 
go out into the woods. I don't even know why I said it." The palms of her hands 
felt clammy, and she ran them through her hair.
Laura grinned. "Cool. The Catcher Man. I like it."
Upstairs there was another bang, and this time it did get Kay's attention. "Did 
you leave a window open upstairs?"
"In this weather? No. Why?" Laura pulled out two more pieces of bread from the 
bag and put them in the toaster.
"I just wondered what that banging was up there."
Tilting her head quizzically, Laura listened for a moment. "I can't hear 
anything." She grinned. "It must be your age. Nearly forty..."
"Oh, you're so funny, young lady. You'll be forty one day and then it won't seem 
so very old. Trust me on that one."
Her tone was light, but inside she still felt a little unsettled. Why the hell 
had she mentioned the Catcher Man? It wasn't even anything she'd thought about 
for years. Not since ... well, not for a very long time. She gazed back out of 
the window. It was the storm, that's what it was. The storm and Paul's fortieth 
birthday-- not that they'd even had the party to celebrate. It had
57 
been a storm like this hitting the village when Melanie had gone missing all 
those years ago. That must have been what made her think of it. She shivered 
again, her arms folding across her chest. She hadn't been sad about Melanie 
disappearing. Shocked maybe, but not sad. But she'd often wished she'd known 
what happened to her. There was a dark space in her head around that day, 
something the eleven-year-old inside her had locked away, a suspicion or a doubt 
that she'd never really wanted to face up to.
Watching the wind getting stronger outside, she wondered if she should take the 
time to examine that dark space and dig up the memories, but decided against it. 
The storm would pass. And that was all that was unsettling her. The storm. There 
was no point in raking over the past. Her own mother was dead and couldn't give 
her any answers, and she wasn't even sure she wanted any.
Yes, she thought, her heart warming as she watched her own child pacing 
innocently around the kitchen. The storm would pass.
58 
58
59 
Chapter Eight
The weather was definitely getting worse, and as they headed back to the house, 
Alex had to lean forward slightly into the wind to keep her balance.
"Thanks for not saying anything about what happened to Mary yesterday. Alice is 
a lovely woman and has a heart of gold, but villages are full of gossip and old 
women are the worst for it. She'd tell one customer and before you know it, 
they'd have Mary all ready to be hauled away to the funny farm."
Simon shrugged. "Don't mention it. Hey, I'm a journalist. I know all about how 
stories spread. Anyway, she just had a turn. It's no big deal. She'll be right 
as rain when we get back."
Nodding, Alex stayed silent. Simon might believe that, but then he didn't know 
what right as rain actually was for Mary. He might think that the fragile woman 
that came downstairs the previous evening was her being normal. Maybe if he'd 
seen her just a
60 
few hours earlier, he'd have realized just how much she had changed over the 
course of the day.
She brushed her hand over the old wooden sign as they reached the base of the 
hill, feeling the dampness soaking into the dead tree, and sighed. Life was such 
a fragile thing and everyone took it so much for granted. Always wanting things, 
but always waiting for tomorrow or for a better time. She wanted to shake the 
world and scream, There is no better time. There is only now. But what was the 
point? No one really got it until it was too late. Maybe that was just the way 
it was meant to be.
Water trickled down her nose and as they curved around the wall of the old 
churchyard, she lifted her head to sniff it out of the way, stopping in her 
tracks. Up ahead, twenty or so yards away, a little boy stood by the tiny side 
gate to the church, one finger up to his lips.
No, no no. It couldn't be. She was awake. Wide awake. And she'd only taken one 
tablet of morphine at breakfast. Just one.
The boy stared at her, unmoving, and her eyes wide, Alex could see the bright 
colors of his knitted tank top, and the mud patches on his sleeves. It was the 
boy from her dream. Oh man. And I was worried that Mary was going crazy... Her 
breath hitched in her chest and somewhere outside the bubble that seemed to be 
around her she could see that Simon had stopped and was watching her. He may 
have even been speaking; she wasn't sure.
The boy took his finger away from his mouth and pointed to his left. To the 
church. His mouth moved and she could make out the shape of the words even 
though she couldn't hear them.
61 
I told you. Look. See.
The rain was hitting her face, but under it the skin on her cheeks was burning 
hot. This can't be. This just can't be. She needed to speak to Dr. Jones about 
this. As much as she hated his sympathy and pity, she definitely needed to talk 
to him about this. Feeling things that weren't there was one thing, but seeing 
them was quite another.
"Are you okay?" Simon's hand touched her arm and she jumped, breaking eye 
contact with the boy and turning to the man beside her. "You're shaking."
She stared at him for a second. "The boy over there..." Looking back to the 
church gate all she could see were the overhanging strands of ivy and water 
running from the branches of the oak tree. No strange boy. He was gone.
"What boy? The one we saw on the way to the shop?"
"No. No, not him. A different one." Where did all these children come from, 
anyway? "Didn't you see him? Up there by the church gate. He was pointing at 
something."
Staring at Simon, all she saw in his face was confusion. "No. I didn't see 
anyone." He shrugged and looked around at the empty road and fields. "But then I 
was concentrating on where I was putting my feet, so I guess if there was a kid 
there, they could have run away."
Alex thought about the lightning last night. One minute he was there beside her 
bed, and with the next flash, gone. Maybe it was best to keep that story to 
herself for the time being. Otherwise Simon would think they were a family of 
lunatics.
62 
"Maybe he ran into the churchyard. It's the only place he could have gone 
without us seeing it. Let's take a look."
Silent, Alex nodded, glad that Simon had suggested it. After the words the boy 
had mouthed to her, she definitely wanted to look, just to reassure herself that 
everything at the church was normal. Yes, that would be good. Everything normal, 
and the madness just inside my head. Great. Very reassuring. Cancer and 
insanity. How much can a girl hope for in life?
Keeping their heads up, they walked quickly to the gate and peered over it. "I 
can't see anything. But then there's an awful lot of trees blocking my sight."
A few inches below, Alex was finding it equally difficult to see, and she 
clicked open the gate. It moved stiffly, as if it hadn't been used in a while, 
and Alex didn't find that at all surprising. Because he didn't run away, did he? 
He just disappeared. That's what figments of the imagination do--vanish like a 
puff of smoke.
Crouching to duck under a branch, something caught her eye. "Simon, look. The 
church door is open. Why would Reverend Barker be in the church at this time in 
the morning?" Ahead she could see the wood swinging backward and forward with 
the growing wind. "And why would he leave the door open in this weather?"
"There's only one way to find out. Come on, let's go and take a look." He smiled 
at her. "At least it'll get us out of the rain for a couple of minutes."
Fighting past the last of the grasping limbs of the trees, they emerged on the 
lawn, which covered the sides and front of the quiet fourteenth-century chapel. 
Both their trots slowed to walks. The door banging in
63 
the wind sounded like an untamed heartbeat, or a death knell; the two were one 
and the same thing-- markers of precious time being lost. Alex shivered. This 
didn't seem right. It didn't seem right at all.
Simon jumped up the worn steps and held the solid wood open, letting the yellow, 
dim light from inside reach out to them. Watching him waiting for her, Alex bit 
back the urge to turn and run back to the farmhouse and stepped hesitantly 
through the archway, before Simon shut the door quietly behind them. Atheist 
that she was, she had still always felt some serenity, some inner peace in this 
church. But not now. All she was feeling now was unease. Whatever sense of 
sanctuary that had existed here was gone.
"Reverend? Reverend Barker? Are you in here?" Stepping forward down the aisle, 
her feet echoed as she glanced down the rows of pews. Simon followed her, 
peering under the benches for any sign of the boy or the vicar. Alex wasn't 
quite sure what they were looking for, but the two of them moved slowly side by 
side, she searching the shadows and light to the left, and he to the right. 
After the constant noise of nature's angry rage outside, the quiet of the church 
was eerie. Every drip of water that slid from their clothes or hair to the floor 
seemed to chime out their presence. She sniffed and the sound came back at her 
from every corner, taunting her. Despite the gloom that seemed to eat at the 
cold stone walls and alcoves, the lights directly above Alex and Simon seemed 
almost too bright, like spotlights scrutinizing their every breath as they 
walked side by side in a parody of a wedding march.
"Look." Alex's heart thumped in her ears as she whispered, drawing Simon's 
attention toward the altar. He
64 
nodded silently, and as she got closer she wondered why she hadn't noticed it as 
soon as they came into the church. The beautiful gold and red tapestry that 
normally covered the aged surface had been thrown carelessly to the stone floor, 
and beside it a dark, oozing patch spread out where a large vase of flowers had 
been knocked over, some of the buds now dying on the steps by their feet. All 
that was left on the large space was a candlestick, the candle burnt right down. 
But something had been written on the altar. Scrawled in hot wax, which had now 
set.
"What the hell does that mean?" Simon sounded confused, and for the first time, 
Alex heard uncertainty in his voice. She stared down at the abused altar.
The words stared back at her, her throat tightening. She'd heard those words 
somewhere, she knew she had. When?
I couldn't move my legs. Look how they move now!
"What did you say, Alex?" Simon was staring at her, and she dragged her eyes 
away from the altar.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did. You muttered something about your legs. And then said 'Look how 
they move now' Do these words mean something to you?"
Alex stared at the words. Did they mean something to her? Should they? Fear bit 
at her insides. This writing was real, not just something in her head brought on 
by the medication. Just what was going on? She looked up at Simon, and felt 
tears suddenly threatening to
65 
spill. "I don't know. I don't know if they mean anything to me or not. They just 
seem familiar." The confines of the church were making her feel claustrophobic. 
"Let's go and check outside. See if there's been any more damage. Maybe the kids 
that are staying at the caravan park or wherever broke in and vandalized the 
place."
Once outside, Simon led the way around the side of the church, Alex using his 
back to shield her from the wind. She was glad they weren't walking side by 
side, because it gave her a few minutes to try and pull herself together. Maybe 
there was something odd going on, but at least there was now physical evidence 
rather than just her overactive imagination. Maybe there even was a little boy. 
Maybe he had hidden in the house last night and really had been in her bedroom. 
She hadn't checked under her bed after turning the light on, so maybe he'd 
hidden under there and snuck back out when she'd gone to sleep.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. It was thin and flimsy, 
but in daylight it certainly seemed plausible. Although she didn't know why 
anyone would want to hide in her room to scare her. And his finger was cold and 
wet, the small voice of reason in her head whispered quietly. Not like someone 
that had been hiding in the warm all afternoon, but I guess you don't want to 
think about that right now, do you?
They turned the corner and ahead of them the old graveyard opened up. Toward the 
other side of it was the border with Mary's garden, through which she'd seen or 
heard whatever it was that made her so upset the previous day, and between them 
and that were rows of deteriorating gravestones and tombs. About halfway back, 
amongst a neater line of modern stones,
66 
was her mother's; in the not too distant future, Alex would fill the space 
beside her. Her stomach tightened slightly. Each day, a day closer.
"Oh God."
Simon's voice was loud and deep, and he stopped so suddenly that Alex almost 
walked into the back of him, having to swerve to his side, stumbling over her 
feet. Steadying herself, she stared down at what had stopped him and for a 
moment, for a long, blissful moment, she didn't understand what she was seeing.
The body that lay twisted on the hard stone paving slabs was nearly 
unrecognizable; it was the vicar. He wore ordinary gray trousers and a V-neck 
pullover, out of his church uniform he was no longer a representative of a 
higher power, but just a person, vulnerable and so pathetically human. Hearing 
Simon letting out a long shaky breath beside her, Alex absorbed the details, her 
eyes and brain working together against her need not to know, not to see.
Reverend Barker's hands had gone slightly blue, no, more like bluish-purple, 
where they had been exposed to the elements, the liquid that filled his veins 
congealing in the extremities of his fingertips, bloating them with pressure 
from within, maybe from the smashed bones that must be the cause of the 
sickening shape of his legs and arms. Beneath the thinning hair on his scalp, 
blood as red as communion wine gathered and then dispersed outward, filling the 
cracks between the slabs of stone and running through them, using them as canals 
for escape, disappearing into the dirt.
Although Alex's rational mind told her this was Reverend Barker ruined on the 
ground, she couldn't come to terms with the reality of it. His dignity and quiet
67 
serenity had been stripped away, leaving only a humiliated husk of a human 
being. Looking upward, Alex could see the bell tower directly above where he 
lay.
She's hurting him. She's making him cry. She's going to make him jump.
"Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus..."
It took a moment to realize that the disjointed voice she could hear was her 
own, and when Simon touched her arm she yelped, pulling away.
"It's me, Alex. It's just me." He held her arms for a moment, focusing his eyes 
on hers. "Stay with me, Alex. We're okay. We're okay."
Breathing deeply, the air feeling shaky around her, Alex nodded. Simon held her 
gaze for another few seconds, then moved her so she was leaning against the wall 
before he crouched by the body, touching the man's scrawny neck where his head 
was twisted sideways, one cheek pressed into the coldness beneath.
"Still alive... he's still alive." Simon stared as the vicar's eyelids fluttered 
open. Alex fell to the ground, kneeling in the man's blood, her heart pounding 
in her chest with hope. Reverend Barker coughed; a weak, wet sound that sent a 
shiver up Alex's spine, and spots of blood appeared on his teeth as he opened 
his mouth, his breath raw and rotten.
"Shhh. Don't try to speak. Don't try to speak..." Her own eyes were blurring 
with tears, but she could see that the vicar's were so full of pain that he 
couldn't even focus. When he whispered, he sent his words somewhere between her 
and Simon, as if a ghost had joined them that only he could see.
"Melanie Parr." He spat the words out accompanied by a spray of blood and 
saliva. Alex's heart froze, but
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this time the dying man's gaze met hers, and for a moment there was clarity 
within the glare of pain. She could see his jaw and throat working, desperately 
trying to communicate, those two words obviously not enough. Not nearly enough. 
A clicking sound came from his chest and he shut his eyes for a second, 
concentrating on the effort of speech.
The sound came out in a rattle of air. "Our... sin ... warn them ..."
He stared at Alex, the frustration at her confusion obvious as he tried to move 
his head forward, needing to be closer, needing to make them understand 
something. Alex and Simon both leaned forward, Alex trying not to recoil from 
the warm smells erupting from Reverend Barker, the death that was shrouding him.
"... Warn them. ..." His lower body had started to convulse slightly, but still 
he pushed out the words before the shaking overtook him. "Come ... for... us."
This time the cough raped his being, sending warm blood into Alex's hair as he 
angrily expelled his last breaths. She shrieked, burying her face in Simon's 
shoulder, his arms wrapping round her, pulling her in. The awful choking hack 
stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun, but Simon held on to her, rocking 
slightly backward and forward, whispering soothing sounds, his hand holding onto 
her crimson hair as they sat in silence.
Eventually, she lifted her face. "Is he dead?" She didn't want to look. She 
didn't want to look back at the mess of the corpse beside them.
Simon nodded. "He's gone."
"I need ... I really need ..." The heat had returned to her face, and looking 
down at her hands, her red
69 
hands, she saw how they were shaking. Her whole body was shaking. Bile began to 
burn her chest as spots of blackness ate into her vision. She had to get away. 
She had to get away immediately. Pulling herself to her feet, she clutched at 
the wall behind her, numb feet clumsily lurching back the way they had come, 
toward the lawn, to where she wouldn't be able to see him, not able to get her 
there quick enough, fighting the scream that seemed to be filling her brain.
Doubling over in the open space, she let it go, her stomach emptying itself, the 
steak, the flesh of the previous night's dinner not welcome inside her anymore. 
She heaved and heaved until there was no longer even any liquid left to 
relinquish. Tipping her head backward, she let the heavy rain run through her 
hair and over her face and sighed, letting her skin cool. Somewhere down in the 
mess at her feet were her painkillers and medication, probably only 
half-absorbed. Should she take some more? Would she be able to hold them down? 
And what the fuck would she start seeing if she did? Maybe a bit of pain wasn't 
such a bad thing.
Turning around, she tilted her head up into the rain, enjoying its attack on her 
face, the way it stung her skin. She ran her hands through her hair as if she 
was in the shower, imagining the water running first red, then pink, and then 
clear as she rinsed away the blood and tears that covered her. Her muscles ached 
from throwing up and her limbs felt heavy. God, she was tired. But then she was 
always so goddamn tired these days.
Opening her eyes, she saw Simon standing beside her. He didn't seem bothered by 
the weather anymore either, ignoring the way it buffeted him.
"I've covered him up with the cloth from inside the
70 
church. It's the best we can do for now. Maybe he jumped or just fell by 
accident, but with that vandalism to the altar it's probably best we don't move 
him. Not until the police get here, anyway. The best thing we can do is get back 
to the house and see if the phones are back on."
Alex nodded. "Just give me a minute. I'll be fine in a minute." Despite the 
relief of the cleansing cold and rain, she didn't think she had it in her to 
move. It was all too much to deal with--Melanie Parr, the boy from her dream and 
the things he said. How could any of it make sense? And on top of all that she 
could feel the pain deep in the core of her abdomen throbbing into life, her 
cancer reminding her of what she really had to fear. Not ghosts in the night.
Simon put his arm around her. "It's the shock. It's okay. It's shock."
Anger flashed inside her, white and hot and she pulled away from him. What the 
hell does he know, the patronizing bastard? What the hell does he know about me? 
This had nothing to do with the shock, and everything to do with the shitty hand 
life had dealt. Her rage gave her energy and she pushed herself away from him 
and stood upright.
"Like you said, we need to try and get help. Let's go." She wondered if her 
bitter tone carried over the sound of the rain as she turned and headed back to 
the road, ignoring his offer of an arm. She hoped it did. She didn't care 
whether he liked her or not, and as soon as he realized that, the better it 
would be for both of them. There was no more time for romance, and as soon as 
she got that through her own thick skull the better.
71 
Chapter Nine
Kneeling on her bed to pull the curtains open, Laura figured it wasn't all bad. 
Yes, it was raining, but it wasn't cold. And surely once the storm passed, the 
sun would blaze down for at least a week and then there'd be plenty of time for 
exploring and dam-building and treasure hunting in the countryside. Not that 
they'd be staying inside all day today. Mrs. Granville would be driven mad by 
having all five of her own kids plus Laura in the house. In fact, now that she 
thought about just how loud and manic that would be, Laura decided it would 
probably drive her mad too, and she was only eleven.
She heard the buzzing sound three times before she figured out what it was. Her 
bed made and toys tidily put away, she stared at her school bag. The buzzing was 
coming from there and the only thing it could be was her mobile phone. Undoing 
the straps of the old-fashioned brown satchel, she felt the short vibration 
through the leather and her brow furrowed. There
72 
were two things confusing her: Number one was the obvious one--everybody knew 
that no phones got a signal in the village, and she knew for sure that hers 
didn't work unless she was at school in Taunton, so the phone shouldn't be 
buzzing at all. The second thing was that school had been over for two weeks or 
more, so even if she'd left it on, the battery would have been dead ages ago.
Pulling it out, she stared at the lit-up screen.
New Text Message.
The screen looked slightly odd and it took a moment or two before she figured 
out why. There were no lines or bars on either side of the message, framing it. 
Which meant that the phone had absolutely no battery and no signal. She sniffed, 
not unduly concerned. It could also mean that her father's cast-off Nokia was 
finally dying. Phones did odd things as they reached the end of their lives. 
Everyone knew that. Screens came on and off and went funny colors. Maybe hers 
was just doing that. She pressed the open button.
Do you want to come out to play?
Smiling, a thought came to her. It must be Jimmy or Jenny. Their home phone must 
not be working either, so they must have tried their mobiles instead. Having 
tried to call after breakfast and getting no dial tone, Laura had been just 
about to grab her coat and head down to their house now that she'd done all her 
boring chores. Glancing at the top of the text, she saw there was no number or 
name to identify it. That was odd too. Her fingers moved deftly over the keys.
Is that u jen?
The phone buzzed again with a new message almost immediately after she'd pressed 
Send.
73 
I'm lonely.
Staring at the message, Laura felt confused, but not afraid. It didn't sound 
like anything Jen would say, not even if she was mucking around. Maybe it was 
Jimmy? After all, who really knew what went on in boys' heads? And now that they 
were eleven the differences between the girls and boys were getting bigger. It 
wouldn't be long before Jimmy would stop hanging around with them and be up at 
Tucker's farm helping his dad with the lambing and bringing crops in.
Jimmy?
Sitting back on her ankles, she waited for the phone to buzz again. She didn't 
know why Jimmy would send something like that, either. When the vibrations ran 
through her fingers she almost dropped the phone.
New Message. Open.
If you go down to the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise.
This was not Jimmy. Jimmy would never write anything so odd, and even if he did, 
he wouldn't write it like that, with all the words in full. He'd write it in 
text. The words were familiar, and she found herself singing them in her head. 
The teddy bears picnic--definitely not something Jimmy would write about. The 
words looked creepy staring up at her, dark against the green screen.
Who r u?
Laura had heard of text-bullying at school, but never had any of it herself. Was 
this what it was like? She shrugged. She didn't feel particularly intimidated, 
just confused and a bit curious.
Melanie. Come and play with me. I've got lots of friends for you to meet.
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Laura only looked at the message for a second before shutting it down, bored. 
Mind games didn't interest her. Whoever this Melanie was--and she must be one of 
the townies on holiday down at the caravan park or something--she was too weird 
for Laura. One minute she was lonely, the next she's got lots of friends. She 
punched in her own reply.
Dont think so.
Pulling herself to her feet, she grabbed her parka from the wardrobe and put it 
on, stuffing her small purse into one pocket. The phone buzzed once more, and 
sighing, she opened the message. This game was getting dull.
But I want to play with you Laura. I've got things to show you.
For the first time, she felt a small shiver of fear trickle almost unnoticed 
down her spine. How had this girl got her name? Angry with herself for letting 
the stranger get to her, she left the message unanswered and shoved the phone in 
her pocket. Jimmy was right--townies were just plain weird next to country 
people.
75 
Chapter Ten
Although the air temperature outside probably wasn't that cold, the force 
contained in the rising rage of the wind and the sheer volume of falling water 
choked any warmth from the summer's day, and Alex was chilled to the bone as she 
stumbled back into the familiar surroundings of Mary's kitchen. Maybe it was 
just the shock and the cancer; who the hell knew? Not her, that was for sure. At 
least she hadn't seen any imaginary children on her way home, so maybe she 
should just be thankful for small mercies. Letting Simon shut the door behind 
them, she headed to the stove to warm her hands on its surface.
"Is the phone back on yet?" Noticing that Mary wasn't in the room, Alex wondered 
if her aunt was even up. Well, she was going to have to get up soon, that was 
for sure. After Mary's experience in the garden the previous day and what the 
vicar had said before he died, Alex found the idea of her aunt being asleep and 
vulnerable in this house to be a little bit frightening.
76 
Warn them. That's what poor Reverend Barker had said. Was Mary one of the people 
that needed to be warned?
"No." Paul stared at her and then Simon, his eyes wide and shaky. "What the hell 
happened to you two?'
Glancing down at her jeans, Alex could see the dark stains on her knees that had 
nothing to do with the soaking she had received outside, and looking at Simon in 
the bright light, she noticed the shadows of pink that lingered on his blond 
hairline. Had that come from her? From her own head when she'd clung to him? She 
wondered how many more ghosts of blood were visible on her and realized how they 
must look to Paul. Like veterans of some awful war zone. The kind of place Simon 
was used to.
"The phone line was down at the shop too, and then we thought we saw something 
at the church." Inside, she almost giggled. Sure, we thought we saw something. 
Imaginary children pointing our way to dying men. What would the police make of 
that? It would be her they'd be arresting.
"We went inside and someone had vandalized the altar, or maybe he even did it 
himself, who knows, but then we went outside and found Reverend Barker dying." 
She knew the words were coming out in a blunt flood, but she couldn't help it. 
"He either jumped from the bell tower or was pushed. And he said some strange 
stuff before he died. About that girl, Melanie Parr." She stared at Simon and 
then at Paul. "How the hell are we going to contact the police if the phones are 
off?"
Paul stared back at her for a moment, no outward sign of shock at their news 
apart from the telltale 
77 
clenching of his jaw, something only she would recognize, and then he grabbed 
the hand towel and passed it to her.
"Jesus. Jesus Christ." He paused for a second and then drew himself up tall. 
"Yes, you're right, we'll have to find a way to get hold of the police, but you 
also need to get warm and dry." He stared at the stains on her trousers. "And 
you've been sick. I think a cup of tea for you."
As she squeezed the water out of her long ponytail, watching him putting the 
kettle on, she remembered just how much strength he had. Yeah, Paul could be a 
lot of things, but weak wasn't one of them. It was easy to take things out on 
the people you loved. An old cliche, but true. She'd been hard on everyone, and 
the shit in her life was nobody's fault. Except maybe Ian's, and that pain was 
too big to face.
Paul pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, making the roundness of his 
belly more prominent as it escaped over his waistband.
"Are we sure all the lines in the village are down?"
Alex shrugged in response. "If ours is and the shop's is, then I'm pretty sure 
they all are."
Simon took off his glasses and rubbed his face, leaning back against the kitchen 
counters. Alex thought he looked tired, and felt a pang of sympathy for him. It 
hadn't been much of a party weekend for him so far. His voice was still calm 
when he spoke, though. "I don't suppose there's a policeman in the village, is 
there?"
Paul's laugh was loud, short, and humorless. "You guessed right, my friend. We 
don't even have our own postman out here. I think the nearest police station is 
Taunton, and that's over twenty miles away." He gazed out of the small panes. 
"And I doubt we'd make it there in the car. Most of the roads will be flooded by 
now
78 
and more than likely we'd get stuck somewhere, even if we took the Land Rover.
A tingle like electricity ran through Alex's veins as a thought ate through her 
brain and straightness came back into her spine. As she moved nearer to the two 
men, her voice was excited. "No, there may not be a policeman, but I know what 
there is--there's a retired traffic cop. Daniel Rose."
Paul and Simon exchanged a look, and it was her cousin that spoke. "No offense 
Al, but I don't think--"
"No, you're not getting it." She cut him off, shaking her head impatiently. 
"Daniel Rose has a kind of CB Radio. He's a radio ham. Talks to people all over 
the country on it. Don't you see? If the phones are out, we may still be able to 
speak to the police!"
She looked from one man to another. "We need to get down there. For one thing, 
we can't leave the body out there in the elements for too long. If there has 
been foul play, the evidence will be ruined, and we need to know how to shut the 
place off so no one else has to go and find him."
Simon nodded, and this time his attention was fully back on Alex. Despite her 
earlier anger, she found that she liked it. She couldn't help herself. What a 
time to start finding men attractive. But then, her timing and choices had never 
exactly been perfect, had they? And she'd control it. She had to. It wouldn't be 
fair on anyone if she didn't.
"Come on then." He smiled at her gently and she wished with an ache that came 
out of nowhere that she could see that grin, whole and happy. "Let's go, lady, 
before we get too dry."
79 
Nodding, she turned to Paul, who put back the mug that he was about to make her 
tea in. "Get Mary and we'll meet you down at The Rock. We'll probably need you 
to help let people know what's going on, and I don't think we should leave her 
up here alone."
"Okay, but then you're definitely going to get warm and fed. You're too thin 
these days, Al."
She smiled at her cousin, although his words twisted her stomach slightly. So 
the weight loss was starting to show. Well, she'd be getting a lot thinner in 
the next couple of months.
"Take the Land Rover; the keys are on the hook in the hall. It might be a good 
idea to have a car in the village anyway, and it's too harsh out there for Mary 
to walk. Not with ... well, with the way she's been."
"I'll get her down there as quick as I can and see you in The Rock. If you're 
not there, then I'll leave Mary in the pub and walk up to Daniel's. Okay?"
Alex reached out impulsively and hugged her cousin. "Take care, Paul. Get down 
to the village as fast as you can." The memory of the vicar's destroyed body was 
too fresh at the front of her mind. Come for us. Who did he think Melanie Parr 
had come for and why? She zipped up her wet jacket. First the police, and then 
she'd start asking questions.
Paul pushed Alex gently to the door until she was standing next to Simon. "Now 
go, you two. We need the police here as soon as possible." He kissed her on the 
forehead, and for a second she felt as if she was a child again, and he the only 
big brother figure in the world worth having. Suddenly she didn't want to go 
back out there. She just wanted to stay here with her family, Paul
80 
and Mary, stay here and pretend that all was well in the world. The lips 
vanished from her skin leaving only a cool patch, and taking the moment with 
them. Without another word, she followed Simon back into the restless storm and 
whatever waited for them there.
81 
Chapter Eleven
It took them about fifteen minutes to get to the Roses' old cottage, and during 
that time the air had darkened almost to black. Luckily they were just inside 
when the thunder ripped through the sky, cracking like a bullet fired in warning 
just above their heads. Alex jumped, even though they were within the warm 
confines of Daniel Rose's attic room. His wife was downstairs making a pot of 
coffee for them, and as much as Alex relished the idea of the hot liquid inside 
her, she wasn't sure that her damaged nerves needed the added caffeine. But she 
did need the normalcy of it. She needed the normalcy of something. At least she 
hadn't seen any strange children on this journey, although as the wind and rain 
had battered them, she'd had the spooky feeling that even the weather was 
against them. Simon also seemed preoccupied, but then, she reasoned, his day 
hadn't exactly been normal either. And looking at the man fiddling with the 
buttons on
82 
the huge array of dials, it seemed that Daniel Rose was starting to feel the 
strain.
The retired traffic policeman's face was serious and intense as he switched on 
his equipment, only the slight shaking of his hands belying either his age or 
his shock at the news of the vicar's death. Simon and she had told him 
everything--the words written in wax on the altar, how the vicar had been alive 
when they'd found him, and the words he'd managed to spit out before he'd died. 
Even without the added detail of messages in the night and children pointing the 
way, it was a chilling enough tale. And those details were ones she hoped to put 
behind her.
Daniel had said very little since bringing them up the old twisted stairs to his 
radio room, and looking at the lines in his face, which created a network of 
canyons and valleys in the loose skin, she wondered at the comfort she felt just 
by being in the presence of age and experience. It was a false security, of 
course; she knew that. She couldn't imagine that age would make much difference 
to fear. In fact, wasn't it children that were never scared of heights or death 
or anything real? Carry that idea further, and the elderly must be the most 
afraid of them all. It would make sense. Their dreams were dust, no time left to 
chase them; the future just held shadows and the possibility of pain. She winced 
at the stabbing ache inside. Maybe she and Daniel Rose had more in common than 
he knew.
Lightning chased its tail of sound through the playground of the sky, and the 
bulb above them flickered slightly. Simon stared at it thoughtfully. "That would 
be all we'd need. No electricity."
Daniel shook his head. "That's one worry you can let
83 
go of, son. I've got a generator. So does the pub. Most people do out here. 
Those of us who have lived here a long time, anyways. The electric's more 
reliable now than it used to be, so it hasn't been used for a time, but I get it 
serviced regular. Habit, mainly."
"So, can you get the police direct on this thing?"
"No." Daniel looked up at Simon and shook his head. "No, the radio won't let us 
get into their bands. I can listen to them, but not transmit. I'll have to get 
hold of another ham and they'll have to fetch someone on the phone."
"Someone you know over the airwaves?"
Relaxing now that he was talking about something he understood, Daniel's voice 
slowed down and softened. "I think that'd take too long for what we need. We 
could waste time calling for people who aren't listening. I'll make a CQ call 
and see what we get back."
"CQ?" Simon was perching on the edge of the crowded desk.
"It means 'seek you,' just the ways it sounds. It's a general call. Anyone can 
answer. My aerial is omnidirectional see, sends out all the way round. Some 
bugger'll pick us up." He started to turn the dial, which whistled back at him. 
"Just let me get to the two meter band and then we'll be on our way."
Alex sat silently in the spare chair, watching the two men. Daniel had better be 
right. They needed to get the police out there, and if it took too long the 
storm would cut the village off.
"CQ, CQ, this is Golf Three Quebec Sierra Tango. Any station comeback?" Daniel 
released the microphone button and sat back. "Now," he muttered, under his 
breath, "let's be having you." He pushed the button
84 
down again. "CQ, CQ, this is Golf Three Quebec Sierra Tango. Any station go 
ahead."
The moment of silence seemed like forever. Alex touched Daniel's arm.
"Is that it?"
The old man smiled slightly. "No, it just means we've got to go looking for 
them. Don't worry. We'll get someone." He twisted the dial again, his head 
tilted to the right as if maybe his hearing in that ear was better, and the 
machine wailed at them as he searched the frequencies. Slowly, the noise faded. 
"Bingo." Out of the static came a conversation, tinny, but gloriously alive. 
Alex covered her mouth as she listened, her eyes glancing up at Simon's and 
seeing her excitement reflected there in those depths of blue. How good it would 
be to get help and pass this buck over to the authorities.
When a natural pause arrived between the two men, Daniel opened up the mike, 
cutting in.
"Sorry to interrupt, this is Golf Three Quebec Sierra Tango. I'm calling from 
Watterrow, Somerset. We've got a bit of an emergency here and need the police, 
but the phones aren't working. Are you close by?"
One of the two men came back straightaway. "I'm about ten miles the other side 
of Taunton. I know where you are. Is it something to do with this awful 
weather?"
Hesitating slightly, Daniel responded. "Likely a bit more serious than that. We 
need to get the police out here, especially before there's too much flooding. 
Can you call them for us? Tell them I'm a retired policeman myself. I don't want 
them to think we're causing a fuss over nothing."
"Roger. Keep this frequency open. Stand by."
Creaking the wooden door open, Daniel's wife, Ada,
85 
carried through a tray with large mugs of coffee and a plate of sandwiches and 
held it out toward Alex, then Simon. "There you go."
Looking at the food, Alex felt her stomach turn. The pain that was literally 
eating at her, combined with finding the vicar dead, had destroyed her appetite. 
Still, she was grateful to take the steaming-hot liquid, enjoying the burning 
ceramic in her hands. She noticed that Simon didn't seem interested in eating 
either. Maybe he wasn't as tough as he appeared after all. Ada sat the tray down 
on top of the gas heater, and sipped her own coffee. The ham and pickle 
sandwiches remained untouched, and Alex figured that they all took comfort in 
their own ways. Maybe Ada's means of soothing herself was to prepare food, even 
knowing that no one was going to eat it. Daniel and Ada were both regular 
churchgoers, and the loss of Reverend Barker would have hit the couple quite 
hard. Alex wondered if, like her, the idea of the reverend committing suicide 
out of the blue seemed highly unlikely to Ada Rose. She imagined that it 
probably would, and perhaps it was contemplating the alternative that was adding 
to all their edginess. Why would anyone want to kill the vicar?
"How are you getting on up here?" Ada stared with concern at the back of her 
husband's head. "The storm's getting right fearful out there. I think some 
people may have lost a tile or two by tomorrow at this going."
Before Daniel could answer, the machine spat out the disembodied voice it 
carried. "Calling Golf Three Quebec Sierra Tango. Are you still there?"
"Still here. Go ahead."
"It doesn't seem to be your night. I've spoken to the
86 
police. They can't get out to you at the moment. A highsider's overturned on the 
B2338 in the wind. That's the only road into your village isn't it? They 
can't--"
The voice was cut off by a high-pitched mechanical screech and Daniel's jaw 
clenched.
"Jesus, what's that? Feedback?" Alex could feel the roots of her teeth tingling 
with the sound as she flinched.
"I'm not sure." Daniel turned down the volume and checked the settings. "I've 
never had anything happen like that before." He clicked the button down again. 
"This is Golf Three Quebec Sierra Tango. Are you still there?" Only a crackle 
came back at them. "I don't understand it."
Simon sipped his coffee. "Could the storm have knocked the aerial out of line or 
something?"
Daniel let out a sigh. "It could have. Or the lightning could be affecting it in 
some way." He smiled grimly at them. "But I'm sure that we'll get them back. I 
may just have to fiddle around up here for a while."
Alex and Simon sat in silence for ten minutes, hoping in vain for another voice 
to join them through the hulk of metal that Daniel poked and prodded, before 
Paul turned up, dripping and windswept. Alex stepped out into the hall to speak 
to him.
"Is Mary okay?"
Paul shrugged, and exhaled. "Well, I'm not sure if 'okay' is the right word. But 
she's better than she was before. Maybe being in the pub will be good for her." 
He paused to take a mug of coffee from Ada, who'd been more than glad to have 
one more soaking stray to cater to. "How about you two? Did you manage to get 
hold of the police?"
87 
Alex shook her head. "Daniel managed to get hold of someone on the radio, but 
there's a lorry overturned on the road, so there's no way the police will be 
able to get to us today."
"Jesus." He banged the back of his head gently and absently against the wall 
while absorbing the information, as if knocking for entrance to a secret 
passageway. "So, what are we supposed to do?"
Alex was saved from her inability to answer by Simon, who joined them, Daniel 
dwarfed in the shadow of his large frame.
"I guess we'll just have to move the body into the church and lock it up. I 
can't think of a better solution. Once we've done that, maybe we should ask the 
residents if they've seen anything or anyone unusual around. Maybe try and get 
down to the caravan site as well."
Alex knew he was thinking of the strange children they saw earlier, and she was 
too. It was easier to think of strangers doing something like that rather than 
anyone from the village, and maybe it was just a childish prank that went 
horribly, horribly wrong. "Maybe we should try to get people together in The 
Rock later. At least that way we can break the news to the whole village at once 
and stop any rumors or gossip."
Paul nodded. "And a drink or two at the end of this wouldn't go amiss, either."
At the end of this. Alex wondered exactly when "the end of this" would be. She 
couldn't forget the desperation in the vicar's eyes as his blood carried his 
last words to her. Warn them. Come for us. Our sin. Maybe it was nothing; maybe 
he was just rambling after lying broken and dying out in the rain for God only 
knew
88 
how long, but deep inside, in the part of her that truly accepted that cancer 
was killing her, she didn't believe that. Something else was going on in 
Watterrow, something she didn't understand, but something she was sure had to do 
with Melanie Parr.
Ada joined them in the corridor. "He's checking the fuses, but I'm sure he'll 
have it working again soon. He spends that many hours tinkering around in there 
that he can more than likely take that radio apart and put it back together 
again in his sleep." She managed a small smile at Paul. "How's your mother? Has 
her headache gone?"
Paul nodded, his eyes slipping slightly sideways. "Yes, but she's still not 
quite herself. She's having a sherry at The Rock."
"Well, I might just go and join her. I think a sherry would do me nicely right 
now. And Crouch will be happy for the profit."
Simon looked down at Alex. "Crouch?"
"Crouch the Grouch, we call him. He's the landlord."
Leading them down the misshapen stairs, Ada paused at the bottom to pull a coat 
from the closet, before passing the others theirs. The damp material was cold, 
and Alex was shivering by the time she'd got it on and done up, and she sensed 
that Simon must be feeling the same beside her. The idea of going back to the 
church and dealing with the body sent a wave of fatigue through her.
Simon zipped his coat right up to his chin, making his voice seem muffled. "When 
we ask people about what's happened to the vicar, we should mention that girl 
that went missing, Melanie Parr, to them. Maybe it's nothing, but it seems 
strange that your aunt mentioned
89 
her name and then Reverend Barker. Maybe someone will be able to shed some light 
on it."
Ada's face twitched and jumped as she stared at them. "Melanie Parr?"
Alex nodded.
"But she went missing thirty years ago. She can't have anything to do with this. 
She can't."
"Well, maybe, but maybe not. A few questions won't hurt." Alex pulled the door 
open, letting the storm's furious curiosity surge past them and peer noisily 
into every corner of the snug cottage.
Daniel had followed them down to see them off, and turning in the doorway, Ada 
clutched at the arm of her husband. "You didn't tell me. You didn't say anything 
about Melanie Parr. ..."
Daniel ushered her out, and the rest of Ada's words were swallowed up by the 
wind.
Pausing for a moment to fall behind the older woman, Alex once again felt that 
there was something going on in her village that she wasn't a part of, but now 
she knew she was being dragged into it against her will. Her and Simon. Whatever 
it was about Melanie Parr that bothered these people, she was determined to find 
out.
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90
91 
Chapter Twelve
The rain was hammering into the kitchen window as Kay stuffed dirty washing into 
the machine, and somewhere not too far away thunder rumbled toward them. For a 
moment she stared out over the garden. To her left she could make out the edge 
of the woods and felt just a twinge of maternal worry. They'd better not have 
gone into the woods, not with the storm whipping up as it was. She trusted 
Laura, she really did, and individually she trusted the Granville kids, but from 
her own childhood she could remember what it was like in a group of friends. It 
was easy to be persuaded and to get carried away by the collective mind.
She filled the soap section and pushed the On button, feeling the vibration 
through her hands as the machine tumbled into life. Emma would be fuming if they 
came home with muddy clothes. She had enough washing to deal with between the 
littlest ones and Dave's work clothes. On reflection, though, Kay was
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pretty sure the kids would stay away from the river and woods.
The kitchen table was still covered with breakfast debris, and putting the 
kettle back on for another cup of tea, she covered the jam and the butter and 
put the plates in the dishwasher. Thank the lord for modern appliances. She'd 
vacuumed yesterday so there was no need to do that, and once she'd sorted the 
washing and figured out what to cook Laura for dinner, the day was pretty much 
her own. And the wonderful thing about a rainy day, once you were over the age 
of about fifteen, was that it really did encourage you to do absolutely nothing. 
She'd got the new Martina Coles book from her book club and she hadn't started 
it yet, and that was looking like her plan for the day. To curl up on the sofa, 
maybe eat the bar of chocolate at the back of the fridge, and lose herself in 
the exciting big-city world of one of Martina's characters. There were 
definitely worse ways to spend the day.
Humming, she damped a cloth and wiped it over the wooden table. Maybe she'd even 
start the book before the washing was done. Sure, if she tried she could find a 
few more jobs around the house to do to fill the time--the bathroom, for one, 
always seemed to need cleaning, but she figured it would still be there 
tomorrow, and today she felt like having a lazy, indulgent day to herself.
The kettle finished its bubbling and she poured it over the bag, letting it soak 
for a moment or two before pinching it out between her forefinger and thumb, 
ignoring the heat, and dropping it quickly into the bin. Promising herself that 
she wouldn't touch it for at least an hour, she grabbed the large bar of Dairy 
Milk from
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the fridge and padded into the lounge, sinking into the well-worn couch. This 
was going to be bliss.
She had only finished the first chapter when her attention was distracted by the 
sound of something coming from above. What was that? It wasn't the banging she'd 
heard earlier; this was something else, like a voice. Putting the book down, she 
listened to the noises of her house. From the kitchen came the quiet whirring of 
the washing machine, but apart from that there was nothing. For once, even the 
creaks in the old wood and brick had subsided.
And then she heard it again. Was it laughter? Putting the book down, she stood 
up and frowned. Maybe Laura had brought the Granville kids around to play, but 
it wasn't like her not to say hello on her way in. And Laura was polite. She'd 
have asked her if it was okay, even though she knew that Kay was never likely to 
say no.
Leaving the lounge, she went into the hall and called up from the bottom of the 
stairs. "Laura? Is that you?"
It was gloomier in the heart of the house, with no large windows to allow in 
even the gray light from outside, and as the silence came back at her, Kay 
fought the temptation to flick the light switch. That would just be stupid and 
silly. It would be like admitting she was feeling nervous in her own house. And 
she wasn't. She definitely wasn't. Still staring upward, she saw a shadow 
darting across the landing. It was so fast she almost thought she'd imagined it. 
Maybe it was a cat that had got in somehow to escape from the rain.
Annoyed at her own inaction, she climbed the stairs, ignoring the familiar 
creaks, and took a few steps across the landing. "Laura?"
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From somewhere behind the spare room door she heard a giggle. "Laura, this isn't 
funny." For the first time she felt a tingle of fear creep up from her toes. 
What was this? Although she was calling her daughter's name, she knew in her 
blood that it wasn't Laura up here giggling and playing games. Laura was a good 
girl.
The lilting voice danced out from the doorway. "As I was going up the stair, I 
met a girl who wasn't there." Behind the voice came a little girl, no more than 
ten or eleven, and staring at her. Kay's heart froze. It wasn't Laura. It 
definitely wasn't Laura; this was a very different little girl, and one that Kay 
knew. She had once known her too well. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. But 
it is. It's Melanie Parr. Melanie Parr was dead and gone. Gone a long time ago, 
lost in the storm. Not hearing her own moan, Kay took a step backward, her eyes 
trapped staring at the perfect blond hair, and the kiltstyle pleated skirt, and 
then the high white socks, one red shoe on, and one foot bare.
The Melanie that couldn't be smiled at her, white teeth sparkling in the gloom, 
and took one pace forward. "I saw that girl again today." She tilted her head 
and pouted, mocking Kay's fear. "I wish... I wish she'd go away." She paused to 
giggle that hollow laugh, and it seemed to fill Kay's head. "Do you wish I'd go 
away, Kay? Don't you want to play with me anymore?"
Kay shuffled further backward. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. It was the 
storm bringing back memories, that's what it was, or maybe she was getting the 
flu and a fever, or maybe she had fallen asleep down on the sofa and this was 
all a very, very bad dream. The tears that were filling her eyes felt real, 
though. And staring at the girl in front of her, she didn't feel like
95 
a woman nearly forty, she felt like she was a child again, small and always 
scared.
Melanie slowly waggled a raised finger. "Tut-tut, Kay Keeler." The smile and 
tilt to her head remained, and Kay groaned again. Keeler. She hadn't been Kay 
Keeler for such a very long time. "You told. You told on me and look what you 
did."
They seemed to stare at each other for an age, Kay's eyes swimming with tears, 
and then from behind Melanie, from the doorways to the spare room and the 
bathroom, four more children appeared, one girl and three boys, their faces 
serious, their clothes, unlike Melanie's, muddy and damp. One of the boys was 
carrying what looked like Phil's fishing box, the size of it too big for the 
child, who could only have been about six years old. This dream was getting too 
real, and she wanted it over. "You don't exist," she mumbled to herself and to 
the gang of children in front of her. "You don't exist."
Melanie's smile stretched into a grin, and behind her the other dark-haired girl 
slyly giggled.
"Oh, but we do, Kay. We live in the storm with the Catcher Man. I've had such 
adventures with him, you wouldn't believe. And I've gotten oh so strong." She 
took a long stride forward and Kay yelped, reaching behind her for the banister 
to guide her to the stairs.
"And now I've come back to play. And your mummy's not around to run to anymore. 
I'm going to play with you all, Kay. I've already started, and now it's your 
turn."
Kay felt her feet tangling up under her, misjudging the distance between herself 
and the top step, and she called out as she tumbled, hands reaching frantically 
for the banisters as she rolled painfully past them. Her
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shoulder cracked against the wall and pain roared through her, stars shooting 
across her eyes. If this was a dream, then surely she should wake up now. Surely 
she should.
Above her, Melanie looked like a kaleidoscope of color as she stood at the top 
of the stairs. "Shall we play fishing?"
Hitting the hard wooden floor head first, Kay's world went black.
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Chapter Thirteen
Alex had stayed in the church while Paul and Simon went to the graveyard to 
collect Reverend Barker, and although she was glad not to have to see his broken 
body up close again, she was happy when the two men appeared in the doorway. The 
church was giving her the creeps standing inside on her own, and looking at the 
vandalized altar, she couldn't help but feel as if the old building were 
accusing her of something. It was stupid, but she still felt relieved not to be 
alone anymore.
"I guess this is as good a place to put him as any." Paul looked pale as he 
lowered his end of the awkward bundle onto the ground in front of the first pew 
and Alex was pleased that the altar rug covered most of the body. She didn't 
need to look into his eyes again. Listening to the thud when Simon let go of the 
weight, Alex wondered if rigor mortis had set in yet. Or maybe he'd been through 
that and was coming out the other side? The morbid thoughts were unpleasant, but
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she couldn't stop herself. Maybe summer flies had already laid their eggs on 
him. It was funny how much she'd discovered about death these days. As if 
knowledge of its processes would somehow cause a miracle and she'd escape it. 
Yeah right. That pain running through your bones isn't getting any better, is 
it? She stared again at the bundle on the floor. A few months tops, and I'll be 
seeing you, Reverend.
"It didn't look like anyone else had been round there." Simon wiped the water 
from his glasses. "The body was untouched as far as I could tell."
"Good," Alex said. "However odd those children were we saw this morning, it 
wouldn't be nice for them to find something like this. Hardly what you want on 
your holiday."
"Is this written in wax?" Paul was staring down at the altar, color returning to 
his face. "What does it mean?"
Alex shrugged. "I'm not sure. It seems familiar, like I've heard it before, but 
I don't know where." She looked up at her cousin. "Do you think it could be 
related to that Melanie Parr girl?"
Paul's brow furrowed instantly. "Why would it have anything to do with her?" His 
tone was sharp and there was a slight hesitancy over the first word that hinted 
at his stutter.
"Well, her name was what Reverend Barker was trying to say when he died. Her 
name and then something about warning people. Surely there must be a link to 
these words."
"Or it could have just been the last rantings of a stark raving mad suicide. 
Have you considered that?" He spat the words at her and Alex recoiled slightly. 
What the
99 
hell was the matter with him? Why did he get so defensive every time that 
missing girl's name was mentioned?
"Yes." She kept her own voice cool. "Of course I have."
"Look, I'm sure you two can manage to lock this place up by yourselves. I'll 
walk down to the doctor's and let him know what we've done. He may need to come 
and see the body or something." He was calmer, but Paul still couldn't meet 
Alex's gaze. "I'll meet you back at The Rock." Nodding to Simon, he scurried 
back up the aisle and out into the rain.
Simon raised an eyebrow at Alex and she shrugged in return. It seemed that his 
friend had noticed Paul's strange behavior too.
"So, where do you think we'll find the keys?" Simon was obviously polite enough 
not to want to talk about Paul, and Alex liked that. "I checked his pockets 
outside, but they were empty."
Alex nodded past the choir seats. "He's got a small office out at the back past 
the vestry." It didn't seem like that long ago that she and Ian had sat in there 
and chatted with the vicar over their plans for the wedding. Bitterness tugged 
at her heart. Who was she kidding? It was four years and a lifetime ago. So much 
for "till death us do part." It turned out that her beloved didn't want to hang 
around for that bit. Sniffing, she pulled herself up tall. Screw him. Those days 
were gone. Long gone.
She led the way, warning Simon to duck through the low doorway as they found the 
vicar's office. After the cool emptiness of the church, the cluttered room 
seemed cozy and warm.
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"There they are." Alex pointed to the large bunch of keys sitting on the desk. 
Picking them up, Simon paused. "Hey, come and look at this."
"What?"
"Look at the stuff on his desk."
Coming alongside him, Alex stared. A pad of paper was open with various notes 
written on it. At the top was the coming Sunday's date, and the bland 
scribblings on the sheet were obviously the beginnings of his sermon. The pen 
was placed on the sheet, cap still off, not neatly stacked with all the other 
pens in the tray, as if he'd been disturbed by something. Her eyes flicked 
across. Next to the pad was an open packet of bourbon cookies, and next to that 
was a mug, half full of cold tea.
Alex looked back up at Simon. "Well, I'm no policeman, but this hardly looks 
like the desk of a man about to commit suicide."
Simon nodded. "I agree. Even the way the keys were on the desk. It looks like he 
came in here to do some work, and then something disturbed him. I don't think he 
killed himself at all."
Staring once again at all the evidence in front of her, Alex couldn't help but 
agree. With what she knew about the reverend, she hadn't really believed that 
he'd commit suicide anyway, but now, after seeing his office, she was doubly 
sure. But it did leave an uneasy feeling in her gut. "If he didn't kill himself, 
then what the hell happened to him?"
Sighing, Simon perched on the edge of the desk. "Well, that's the million dollar 
question, isn't it?" He paused. "This whole thing seems really odd to me."
"How do you mean?" Alex pulled out the desk chair
101 
and sat down, letting her grateful limbs rest. Tiredness had become a way of 
life, but the stress of the past day on top of it was taking its toll.
"Well, for a start, this Melanie Parr business. Don't you think it's odd that 
you didn't know anything about it?"
She shrugged. "She went missing before I was born."
"That doesn't matter. I would have thought that this was a pretty sleepy 
village, and something like that would have been talked about for years, 
wouldn't it? It just seems weird to me that no one even mentioned it to you."
"The country can be like that, Simon. Strange things happen out here. People are 
different than in the city. Out here we just get on with it, if you know what I 
mean."
He nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. But then your aunt being convinced that Melanie 
Parr spoke to her yesterday and then the vicar saying her name before he died 
and the way Paul reacts every time her name is mentioned. ..." His voice trailed 
off. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."
Alex stared at him, her voice soft as she thought aloud. "I do. It's like 
they're all scared of her. Scared of her memory, at any rate. But why would they 
all be scared of a child that went missing all that time ago? It doesn't make 
sense."
Simon smiled slightly. "No, it doesn't, but nothing's making sense." He paused. 
"And I can't talk about things being strange."
"What do you mean?"
He looked awkward, as if he'd started saying something and now regretted it. 
"You'll think I'm crazy."
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Alex laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Trust me, I won't think you're 
crazy. I saw a little boy at the church gate that disappeared into thin air, 
remember?" God, if he only knew the rest. He'd think she was barking. "Go on. 
What's bothering you?"
"It's about the children, actually. Something that I know can't be right, but I 
just can't shift it from my head." He sighed. "You know those two kids we saw 
out in the rain this morning and I said that one of them seemed familiar?"
Alex nodded. "Go on."
"Well, it's been bugging me all morning, and it was only thinking about Melanie 
Parr that it suddenly came to me. Where I'd seen his face before."
"You're just beating about the bush now. Get on with it!" Alex smiled, trying to 
put him at ease.
"I did some research for a series of articles on a missing child once. You know, 
other kids that had gone missing in similar circumstances. The final piece 
wasn't very good and never made it into the paper, but I did do some work on it. 
Well, the thing I guess I'm trying to say is that I'm sure that boy that we saw 
on the way to the shop this morning was one of the children I researched. His 
photo was on all the papers with those glasses on, and that sweater. It was a 
school sweater he had on over jeans, did you notice?" He didn't wait for a 
response. "I wish I'd seen it close enough this morning to see the school logo. 
But how odd to wear a school sweater on holiday."
Alex stared at the vicar's things on the desk, casually abandoned before death, 
then thought of the message scrawled on the altar.
"I don't think you're crazy. I don't think you're crazy
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at all." She looked up at Simon. "That's not to say that I think you're right 
about the kid, because that's just not possible, but I do agree that there's 
some weird shit going on. When you heard me say something at the altar and I 
pretended I hadn't?" He nodded. "Well, what I said was, I couldn't move my legs. 
Look how they move now. The problem is, I don't know why I said it. It just 
seemed right."
They stared at each other for a second, and then Alex smiled. "Maybe it's the 
storm. Maybe it's made us all a little bit crazy." For a second she thought she 
might tell him about the little boy from the church gate, her little boy and how 
she'd seen him in her room the night before, but then stopped herself. Now that 
really would be crazy.
"You know the library here has a lot of old newspapers on microfiche. Nationals 
as well as locals. If that kid's face is really bugging you, then you can always 
stop by and have a look. No one will mind. And it may help pass the time if the 
weather leaves you stuck here with us for a couple of days."
Simon shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed, and once again Alex was relieved 
that she hadn't told him about her strange experiences of the night before. If 
he thought what he'd seen was odd, he'd think she was a freak for what happened 
to her.
"It was probably nothing, but we'll see. Maybe I will." He grinned. "It's 
probably just my old eyes and all this talk of missing children making my brain 
play tricks on me."
Standing up, Alex nodded sagely. "Yes, you look like you're getting on a bit. 
It's probably just a touch of dementia setting in."
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"Great. A touch of dementia. Beautiful. Just what I need."
Alex laughed aloud. "Well, I think what I need is a glass of wine. It's got to 
be lunchtime already, and after the morning we've had, I think I've earned it. 
Let's go down to The Rock and find that grumpy cousin of mine."
"Good plan, lady. Good plan."
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Chapter Fourteen
One of the things Laura loved about the Granville house was that it was always 
messy. Not dirty, but cluttered, and in the kids' rooms their toys were always 
out and sometimes their beds weren't made. Not even Jenny's or Jimmy's, and they 
were the same age as she was. She guessed it came from being part of a big 
family. There were just too many children to keep track of, and as long as they 
were all clean, dressed, and fed, then that seemed to be good enough for Mrs. 
Granville. It wasn't like being an only child. Yes, that gave you plenty of 
attention, but it also meant there was plenty of rule-obeying. Laura would never 
be allowed out of the house without having made her bed first. Still, that 
wasn't such a terrible chore, and her parents were pretty cool most of the time.
Another thing she loved about going to the Granville house was that it always 
smelled like cakes or cookies were being baked; a hot, sweet mouthwatering scent 
that hugged you when you stepped through the door.
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And normally, it was because there was a batch of something delicious cooking in 
the oven.
Sitting on Jimmy's bed, the England football squad duvet crumpled up to make a 
cushion, that morning she could smell chocolate in the air.
"Is your mum baking again?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Yeah, but not for us. She's got some Women's Institute thing 
tomorrow, so she's baking for that."
Jenny rummaged in the bottom of the closet, yanking out toys in various states 
of disrepair. "We could play with Barbie and Ken." She blew a strand of fine, 
golden to ginger hair out her face, her ponytail untidy down her back.
"Yuk." Jimmy grimaced. "There is no way we're playing dolls." His own matching 
color hair was short and spiky and looked freshly gelled. The two may have been 
twins, but Laura could see their own differing personalities emerging as each 
month passed.
"You didn't used to mind."
He glared at his sister. "I used to be a kid and didn't know any better. Boys 
don't play dolls. And anyway, you always want to play stupid romance games with 
them."
Laura sighed. This was true. Jimmy didn't mind playing with the dolls when they 
were playing serial killers and stuff, but Jenny was growing up into a romantic 
and always wanted Barbie and Ken to get married. Laura liked both games, but she 
was glad Jimmy had said no. She wasn't in the mood for the dolls either.
Outside the sky was still dull gray. "I wish we could play outside. I don't want 
to stay in." However much they could never agree on what games to play inside,
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outside it seemed that the possibilities were endless and they always found 
something that they all wanted to do. Her coat was behind her on the bed, where 
little Peter was playing with an Etch-a-scketch, concentrating furiously on his 
clumsy scribblings, and she thought about the phone in her pocket.
"When the wind dies down Mum will let us out. And probably even if it doesn't. 
She'll go mad with us cooped up in here all day." Jimmy grinned cheekily. "We'll 
make sure she lets us out one way or another. If we play cowboys and Indians 
loudly enough round the house she'll pay us to leave."
Laura smiled, but she was still thinking about her phone. "This is going to 
sound a bit stupid, but have either of you had any texts this morning?"
Jimmy and Jenny both shook their heads. "Nope. My phone isn't even on. I never 
turn it on when I'm not at school. Don't see the point."
Jenny tilted her head. "Why?"
"Well, I got a few this morning. I didn't even know my phone was on."
"Who were they from? Anyone interesting?" Jenny wiggled one eyebrow at Laura, 
implying maybe one of the boys they had crushes on at school.
"No." Laura felt herself blush a bit. She didn't want to talk about the boys at 
school in front of Jimmy. "Not like that, anyway. They were really odd. From 
some girl called Melanie. Said she wanted me to play with her 'cause she was 
lonely." The twins stared at her, and she wished she hadn't said anything. "I 
ignored them, but I just wondered if you'd had anything like that."
"Maybe some kid from the campsite pissing around." Jimmy emphasized the swear 
word happily.
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Laura had noticed him using more and more bad language now that they had moved 
up to the senior school. It always made Jenny roll her eyes and Laura thought 
that secretly made Jimmy enjoy it all the more.
"Yeah, that's what I figured."
"Let's have a look though. Did you bring your phone? Maybe one of us will 
recognize the number."
Laura yanked the handset from her coat. "I think the phone's dying though. I 
couldn't see a sender's number this morning." The screen was black, and she 
pushed the On button. Nothing happened. "The battery must have died." Peering at 
the small dead screen, Laura decided not to tell her friends that there hadn't 
been any battery or signal showing earlier either. She was already wishing she 
just hadn't mentioned the whole thing. She felt like she was making something 
out of nothing. "It doesn't matter anyway."
"I seen children playing. New children." Peter didn't raise his head but kept 
drawing.
"Sure you did, Petey." Jimmy grinned at his baby brother." 'Course you did."
Peter shrugged slightly, as if he didn't care whether his big brother believed 
him or not.
Shoving the dolls back into the bottom of the closet, Jenny glanced at her 
Mickey Mouse watch. "It's nearly ten. Shall we go and see if Mum's cookies are 
done?"
"I thought you said they were for other people."
Hauling herself to her feet, Jenny looked impatiently at Laura. "This is Mum 
we're talking about. She'll have made thousands. Plenty for us!"
"We might even persuade her to let us go out now," Jimmy grumbled.
Getting off the bed, Laura looked at Peter. "You 
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coming, or shall I bring you a cookie up?' At three, Peter's hair was still very 
blond, no sign of the red that marked his older siblings, and Laura had a real 
soft spot for him. She remembered when he was born, and she loved the way he 
just quietly got on with things, entertaining himself.
"Stayin,'" he mumbled, still bent over his battered toy.
"Okay." She kissed the top of his head and bounded down the stairs after her 
friends.
It was only as she disappeared through the doorway that he raised his head and 
looked out the window, his small blue eyes searching for something amongst the 
hedgerows of the garden and the trees of the woods beyond. "I want to go and 
play with the other children, Laura." His eyes glanced back to the door, 
disappointed she'd gone before he spoke. He then looked back out at the trees, 
then down at his toy, then back to the trees again. In his head he could see his 
bright yellow coat on the floor of his bedroom. All the others were downstairs. 
He could put his coat on and go out for just a minute. He wouldn't go very far. 
It was naughty to wander off, he knew that, and he wasn't a naughty boy, he was 
a good boy.
He would just go down to the end of the garden. Maybe just the other side of the 
fence and see if the children were there. And then he'd go back inside. That's 
what he'd do. He'd go back inside and have a cookie with Laura and Jenny and 
Jimmy. Staring out the window, he nodded as if someone had asked him a question, 
and then carefully put the toy down on the bed and padded toward his room.
The yellow coat was exactly where he remembered it, and his face concentrated, 
he slipped each arm into
110 
the appropriate hole, for a moment thinking that the back was going to be at the 
front; then he'd never figure it out and have to call for Jenny or Mummy. He 
smiled happily when the gaping opening was where it should be. Leaving it 
undone, not yet old enough to master the zip, he crept out into the hallway. His 
small, pudgy hand gripped the rail of each banister as he carefully came down 
each stair, trying to be quiet. Normally he would slide down on his bottom, but 
he was scared that might make too much noise. And he could see better through 
the banisters.
From the kitchen he could hear the others laughing and giggling as they 
persuaded his mother to hand over the hot baked oatmeal and raisin cookies, and 
for a second he was tempted to forget all about the other children and join them 
instead. They were talking about putting a movie on while waiting for the 
thunder to pass and he heard Laura mention his name and say something about 
taking some cookies and milk up to him.
Turning his back on the noise, as Mummy was saying that if he was hungry he'd 
have to come down and get one himself, he wasn't a baby anymore, Peter wished 
that Laura would come out and play with the new children too. He was sure that 
they wanted her to. Especially Melanie. Melanie said she wanted to be friends 
with everyone and there were some other new children that were three, just like 
him, to play with.
One eye fearfully focused on the kitchen, he pulled open the downstairs bathroom 
door and reached in to pull his Wellington boots out from their place with the 
others under the sink. His breath was coming in fast pants with the 
concentration of being so careful, and
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tucking himself under the stairs, just in case someone came out into the 
hallway, he tugged the boots on. He got them on the right feet through accident 
rather than planning and, ready to go, he peered round the edge of the stairs to 
make sure the way was clear.
Normally he'd go out to the garden through the back door in the kitchen; in 
fact, normally that was the only door they ever used, but that way was blocked, 
so he was going to have to use the front one. Stepping forward, he stretched 
himself as far on his tiptoes as he could go, small clumsy fingers grasping at 
the latch. For a second he didn't think he was going to make it and he'd have to 
reverse everything he'd done and run back upstairs, but then he felt the cold 
metal. Letting his feet do the work, he dropped back onto his soles, keeping his 
finger on the metal, and as he lowered, so did the catch, the door immediately 
swinging open with the wind from outside.
Smiling, he stepped out into the rain and shut the door as quietly as he could 
behind him. The water hit his face hard, but he was a country boy and the 
elements didn't really bother him, especially when the air was warm, and 
squinting against it, he trotted around the side of the house and down to the 
garden. He couldn't hear anyone coming behind him, but up ahead, just beyond the 
low back garden gate at the edge of the woods, he could see the children waiting 
for him. Four or five were peering out from behind the trees, but Melanie was 
right by the gate, no coat on and smiling at him, as if the weather couldn't 
touch her. Raising his arm, he waved excitedly. They wanted to play with him. 
Just him. And not because he had to tag along with Jenny or Jimmy or the others. 
They were going to be friends of his own.
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The wind seemed to get stronger as he got closer to the gate, but Peter didn't 
mind. Melanie was waving him forward, having taken a step back toward the woods, 
and reaching the gate, Peter hesitated. He'd always promised Mummy that he would 
never ever wander outside the garden without her. His fingers toyed with the 
bolt impatiently. But he wouldn't go very far. And he wouldn't be alone.
Staring at the others waving him on, he smiled, pushed the metal open, and 
followed.
They were about halfway through Scary Movie 2 when Laura felt the phone 
vibrating in her sweatshirt pouch, which was strange because she was pretty sure 
that she'd left it in her coat pocket on the bed. She was also sure that when it 
had gone off this morning it was the tone that had been on. Maybe she'd 
accidentally pressed a button when she was messing with it. She didn't feel 
convinced. What she was convinced about was that the phone had been dead when 
she'd tried to turn it on to show Jimmy and Jenny the earlier messages. So how 
come it was buzzing now?
She was curled up in one of the Granville's oversized comfy armchairs and the 
twins were stretched out on the carpet in front of her on beanbag cushions. Not 
wanting to draw attention to herself, not until she had something she could 
actually show them at any rate, she quietly drew the phone out. The screen shone 
brightly.
New Text Message
She pushed the open button.
If you tell he will die
She read it twice before the cold chill settled in her
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young stomach. Once again the screen was empty of a battery reading or signal 
bars and there was no sender id. No name, no number. Getting up from her seat, 
she walked as casually as she could out into the hall and took refuge in the 
downstairs bathroom. Lowering the lid, she sat on the toilet seat, feeling its 
cool surface through her jeans, making her skin pimple. Her hand moved over the 
buttons and sent just one word:
Who?
This time the message sign didn't even come up, just the words, taunting her 
from the green screen.
Look and see.
The screen darkened for a moment, then flickered to life, the colors on the film 
bright, made more eerie by the silence. A blonde girl that looked younger than 
her was smiling at the camera and waving, her curls blowing out behind her head 
in the wind. It seemed like she was standing in the woods somewhere, but it 
seemed darker than it should have been and Laura couldn't figure out if that and 
the strange greenish tinge to the gloom was because of the phone or just the 
madness of these messages that shouldn't be coming through anyway.
The little girl--is that Melanie?--pointed to her left, and the camera panned to 
the left, and Laura had to put her hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying 
out. Peter's yellow coat was immediately recognizable, as was his blond hair and 
his sweet face, all crumpled and crying. Two older children, one boy who seemed 
to be wearing a school sweater and jeans, his glasses glinting even in the 
sickly gloom, and a girl in an old-fashioned pinafore dress, were holding each 
of his arms and smiling while someone else, Laura couldn't see who, threw small 
rocks at him. Peter squirmed as
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they hit his small body and Laura could see that he was crying out, confused and 
terrified by the pain, but the two children kept a firm hold on him.
The camera moved back to Melanie, who was still smiling, then the screen 
returned to an open text message. Whoever the girl was, she obviously wanted 
Laura to say something. And Laura knew what it was.
What do you want?
She could feel the two cookies she'd eaten gurgling and fighting to rise as bile 
from her stomach. This was stupid and crazy. Why would those kids have taken 
Peter? Why did he go with them? New words flashed up.
I want you to play with me.
Laura stared.
And you'll let Petey go?
Not if you tell. Bad things happen when you tell.
The world felt blurry at the edges and she couldn't really believe she was 
having this conversation.
Where are you?
The woods. Come now.
Where in the woods?
We'll find you. We want to play.
The phone went dead. Lights out, power off, and for a full minute Laura just 
stared at it. Part of her almost didn't believe the last few minutes had 
happened, but the trembling in her hands and the image burned into her eyes of 
little Petey crying as rocks were thrown at him told her otherwise. This was 
crazy and weird but it was happening.
Fighting the urge to run in a panic to Emma Granville, she stood on shaky legs, 
lifted the lid and flushed. There was only one thing she could do, and
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that was go out in the woods and find Pete. Whoever these kids were, they 
wouldn't know the local area as well as she did, and once she'd found the little 
boy she'd get away from them and come and tell her mum. She didn't know how 
they'd got her phone to work, but it was probably some bluetooth connection or 
something new that hadn't worked its way down into the country yet.
Taking a deep breath, she went back to the lounge. Jimmy squirmed on his old 
cushion. "You okay?"
"No, I don't feel too well. I think I'll go home."
Jenny sat up. "Yeah, you look a bit pale. Did it just come on?"
"Yeah. I'll just go and grab my coat. I'll call you later."
"Okay. Hope you feel better."
Laura tried her best at a weak smile, then turned her back on them, taking the 
stairs two at a time to fetch her coat. Jimmy's bed was empty, dashing her vague 
hope that Peter would be sitting hunched over the Etch-a-Sketch where they'd 
left him and this was all some kind of weird trick. She could just about make 
out the small dent in the covers where he had been sitting. This was real. He 
was gone. She stared out the window for a moment, the trees a blur in the rain, 
before heading back down the stairs and out into the storm.
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117 
Chapter Fifteen
Paul trudged carefully across the steep cobbled road, having left Simon and Alex 
warming up in The Rock with large glasses of red wine and a quiet but lucid 
Mary. They'd told him what they'd found in the vicar's office and he'd agreed 
that it didn't sound too much like a suicide to him, either. They'd stared at 
him as if hoping he could shed some light on it, but he didn't have any more of 
a clue what was going on than they did. All he knew was that Melanie Parr was 
long gone; maybe someone was playing tricks on them and one of those tricks had 
gone badly wrong with Reverend Barker. He didn't see the point in sharing what 
he remembered of the girl unless he had to. And as far as he was concerned, at 
the moment he didn't have to. Some memories were best left buried in the past 
where they belonged.
He paused, his eyes for a moment distracted by some movement in the gray air 
ahead of him. For a second he thought he saw a small group of children
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playing ring-a-ring-of-roses, but then, as he blinked, they'd gone. He stared 
into the rain, but there was nothing there but the uneven walls of the stone 
cottages. One still had a large black bin out in front from whenever the garbage 
men came. Maybe that's what he'd seen. Great. Now it wasn't just Mary seeing 
things, it was him too. Maybe it was something in the water. He blinked again, 
rain getting in his eyes. Or something in this bloody storm, which seemed to be 
getting worse rather than better. Still, an hour outside at most and then he'd 
be back in the warm, where he pretty much intended to stay until the rain 
stopped. Above his head the sky growled, but no lightning flashed. At least that 
was something.
Simon had offered to come back out and help him knock on doors to let people 
know to meet in the pub at four, but Paul persuaded him against it, saying that 
his friend needed to dry out and that there weren't exactly hundreds of houses 
to go to. It was a small white lie. Paul may have moved into the city, but he 
still understood country people. They were used to taking care of themselves. It 
was in their blood after generations of hard living, of working the fields and 
animals of the farms with no one but family on which to rely. They wouldn't like 
having some city man they didn't know telling them what to do. Some of them 
would probably even have a problem with him. He had moved away, after all.
Still, he thought as he looked up through the streaks of water to the lit-up 
windows of the gray stone building closest to him, he shouldn't have a problem 
here. He'd known Phil and Kay Chambers forever; from long before Kay Keeler ever 
considered kissing a boy, let
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alone becoming Phil Chambers's wife. They were two of the guests that should 
have been coming to his party the previous night and he'd been looking forward 
to seeing them again. The primary school days at Wiwy Local School were a long 
time past.
Not finding a bell through the gloom, he knocked loudly, just as he'd done as a 
boy. Phil's family had lived in this house for generations. His mum had been a 
schoolteacher and his dad worked with the dairy farms, just as his dad had 
before him. Phil may have broken the mold by becoming an accountant, but he 
still loved the country life and spent most of his summer weekends out fishing 
on the quiet river. It wasn't the life for Paul, but he could understand why his 
friend had chosen to stay. The country got into some people's blood and they'd 
never be able to shake it out.
With no answer coming, he lowered his head and peered through the letter box. 
"Kay? Are you in there?" His ear pressed to the small gap, he was sure he heard 
laughter coming back at him. Like a child's laughter. "Laura? It's Paul. Can you 
answer the door?" Warm rain trickled into his mouth.
Waiting for Laura to come downstairs, he felt slightly confused. Where was Kay? 
She surely wouldn't have gone out anywhere with the weather like this. Stepping 
back, he stared at the house. All the lights were on. Maybe Laura had friends 
over. The seconds ticked by, but the door didn't open. What was she doing?
Something in his peripheral vision snagged his attention, and he paused for a 
moment. What was that? The long low window at the front of the house was steamed 
up as if something were being boiled close to it on the other side. That 
couldn't be though, because
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Paul knew that room was the lounge. What were Laura and her friends doing in 
there? Stepping closer, trying to peer through, he realized that letters had 
been drawn on the fogged-up glass. What the hell did that say? Irritated, he 
pushed the rain out of his eyes and stared.
Come inside, Paul. Let's play fishing with Kay 
What the hell were Laura and her friends doing in there? This wasn't funny. This 
wasn't funny at all. On top of everything else that had gone on over the past 
twenty-four hours, he really didn't need this shit from kids. He hadn't taken 
shit from kids since he was one, and even then it was only Melanie that had 
scared him. He pushed the thought of her from his head. She was gone. Dead and 
gone a long time ago, and good riddance to bad rubbish. If Laura Chambers and 
her friend were behind what happened to Mary and the reverend, then he was going 
to kill them himself. Even in his anger, the thought didn't sit right. She's a 
good kid. You know that. Why would she be doing this? Another thought chilled 
him. Maybe Laura wasn't there. Maybe it was someone else. But who? And why?
Turning back to the doorway, he raised his hand to knock again, but as he made 
contact with the wood, it swung away from him. The door was open. Surely it had 
been locked a moment ago. The bright hallway was a relief after the dullness of 
the storm, and letting his anger have more reign than the slight nervousness 
that nibbled at his insides, he stepped inside.
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A sound. Someone downstairs. Is she dreaming? Everything seems swimmy inside, 
nothing tenuous, yet everything so horribly real in the blackness. Her head 
lifts slowly as she comes around, her mind fuzzy and groggy. What happened? 
Where is she? She tries to open her mouth, but can't, forcing her breathing 
faster from her nose, a small spray of mucus escaping. She feels it settle on 
her hot cheeks around the plastic stretched over her lips. Tape? Why is there 
tape on her mouth? Hazy memories of sitting down to read her book. Then she'd 
heard something. Gone upstairs. There were children up there. Melanie had been 
up there, even though she couldn't be because Melanie was long gone, and there 
is no Catcher Man, everyone knows that. Had she fallen? Her brain aches trying 
to think. Yes, yes, she'd tumbled down the stairs. Maybe she is still there. As 
she forces herself awake, panic sets in. Whatever this is, it isn't a dream. Or 
a nightmare.
"Kay? Laura? Anyone home?"
Hearing her name being called from the depths of the house, her eyes drift open 
and she tries desperately to hold her head up, not let it loll backward or 
forward as it is so keen to do. She must concentrate. Focus. Where is she? Fear 
tingles through her almost conscious being. For a moment she isn't sure of 
exactly where she is as her eyes move around the room. It's her bedroom, she's 
sure of it, she can see her dressing gown hanging from the back of the door, but 
somehow it all seems different. Not seen from this angle before.
A low moan growls in her chest, her heart beating faster as alertness returns. 
Her arms and fingers are numb, her wrists burning above her. The big double bed
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has been pushed to the wall at one side, leaving the space where she hangs from 
the beam now free from clutter. Rolling her eyes upward, she sees the rope tied 
tightly, trussing her arms, her hands, almost alien to her, swollen and blue. 
She tries to move them and can't. She feels detached, apart from herself, from 
these hands that won't do as they're told.
"Kay?"
The voice is slightly closer, she thinks in the kitchen, and for a moment her 
heart stops with fear, her eyes flashing to the door, to whoever is on the other 
side, before a drip of recognition cools her down. Paul. It's Paul. Somehow Paul 
is in the house. He can help her, he can untie her, he can...
Her excitement has made her wriggle slightly and pain taps gleefully at her 
insides, the numbness fading. There is cold, deep cold buried within, and she 
senses that something is horribly, horribly wrong and that Paul isn't going to 
be able to help her, whatever he does. Slowly, slowly she lowers her trembling 
eyes, not wanting to, oh god, not wanting to, but she has to see, she has to see 
if she is hurt.
Her breath is coming rapidly from behind the tape, the sound almost a snort, and 
tears form at the corner of her eyes as she looks, but there is too much to see, 
too much to take in. She sees where the line of her shorts was when she lay in 
the garden the day before yesterday, the tan developing as nicely as she'd hoped 
it would, and somewhere in her head she thinks wildly that next time she will be 
braver and just take all her clothes off, it's not as if anyone could see over 
the high wall and Phil would love it, not that they'd ever really had a problem 
keeping up the excitement in their 
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marriage. She sees where she's put a few pounds on her hips at that place where 
all men love it and all women want to look like boys, but she'll lose it by the 
end of the summer. ... And then she sees, she can't help but see the tape, the 
strips of white surgical tape that cover her belly, some of the edges pink, pink 
with her blood, where it's oozing from her, and the sobs start to come heavier.
What have they done to her? What have they put inside her? This isn't real. This 
can't be real. Dead people don't come back. They don't come back and they can't 
hurt you.
Rolling her head back up, her eyes widen and for a second her sobs stop. Melanie 
is standing against the bedroom wall, her arms hanging down at her sides, where 
she hadn't been just a moment ago. The little girl smiles.
"But we're not dead, Kay. Not all of us. Some are just in between. And it's 
amazing what you can do in between if you really try!" Her smile stretches and 
to Kay her red gums look like blood. Melanie looks toward the door. "I think 
Paul's coming" she whispers. "Shall we play fishing?" She looks back at Kay, 
raising one finger and waggling it very slowly. "You shouldn't have told, Kay. 
You should never have told!" Still waggling that small finger, she disappears 
into the wall, as if she's stepped backward and through it.
Kay feels a moan build up in her chest and against the tape that is stuck so 
hard to her mouth as terror envelopes her. No no no, this isn't happening to 
her, not to her, not to Kay Keeler, who people say could have been anything she 
wanted, but all she wanted to do was marry Phil Chambers and have a family, and 
who was so lucky to get all she wanted from her quiet life, this couldn't be 
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happening to her, not to her, dead people don't come back, there is no Catcher 
Man ... For a moment, she shuts her eyes, unaware of the strange moist sounds 
escaping from her nose as she cries, and then looks down again.
Her vision focuses on the six or seven thin strands of something--is that 
fishing rope? LETS PLAY FISHING, KAY--that have been twisted together, and they 
leave her stomach from the small gap in the tape to form a thicker rope, 
stretching out like a thin, dry umbilical cord directly in front of her. Her 
terrified eyes follow its taut line to the door handle only feet away.
"Anyone home? Answer me."
Pauls voice is getting closer, in the hallway, and he pauses there for a second 
before she hears the creak as his weight hits that first stair. He's coming 
closer, coming closer toward her, toward the door, and with that thought 
everything stops. Suddenly everything is clear, so crystal clear she could be on 
the other side of the room looking at herself.
Everything is falling into place, and she screams, oh god she screams, and as 
the muted sound escapes in only a frustrated hum, her panic makes her move, and 
this time she doesn't care about the twitching of pain inside, she cares about 
nothing except that Paul is coming up the stairs. Her fixed eyes stare wide, as 
if she can will him to stop, to PLEASE GOD JUST STOP JUST STOP JUST STOP because 
the fishing wire is attached to the door handle, six strands, six strands of it, 
and what would be logical to be at the end of fishing wire, well, fishing hooks, 
of course, and oh god the door opens outward not in and the fish hooks were 
inside her and what would come out what would come out?
He is on the landing, she can hear his heavy cautious
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tread and she is screaming inside for him to stop, to GO AWAY, to GET AWAY FROM 
HER and if she screams any louder she will explode, her head already twisting 
from side to side. Blood has started to dribble from the tape, she can feel it 
running down her naked legs as ifherperiod had come, and he is only seconds away 
and she doesn't want to die, she doesn't want to die. This isn't how it's 
supposed to be, not for her, please god don't let her die, let her wake up now, 
please wake up now. Anything at all, just make this stop, stop right now and the 
handle is turning and all she can see is the rope and the handle, the rope and 
the handle and oh god this is really happening and there is the splash of liquid 
on the floor below as she lets go of her bladder and nononoNONONONOOOOOOOO. ...
Paul reached for the old, round handle and twisted it, pushing hard. Nothing 
happened. It must be locked. Shit. Whoever was playing these weird jokes must be 
on the other side of that door, and despite his nervousness he just wanted to 
get to the bottom of it and let everything get back to normal. Still, it didn't 
stop him glancing nervously back down the stairs. He'd checked all the rooms 
downstairs pretty thoroughly and the landing below was empty, but he still 
shivered as if for a moment someone had been watching him. From the other side 
of the door he thought he could just make out that awful laugh he'd heard 
through the letterbox. "Kay? Kay? Are you in there?" He banged on the wood. 
"Whoever's in there, I'm going to break this door down now, and then I'm going 
to want some answers!" The door didn't even rattle, and he stepped back 
confused. Even if it was tightly locked there would still be
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some give in it. He may not be very strong these days with his expense account 
lunches and too infrequent visits to the gym, but he was still a relatively 
powerful man and the wood didn't seem that thick. Could something have been 
pushed up against it? Maybe Kay and Laura had done it to protect themselves from 
someone else. Maybe whoever had scribbled that message in the window. But if so, 
why weren't they saying anything? And how did anyone know I would be coming 
along? How could anyone have written that message with my name? Isn't that just 
a little bit weird? The kind of weird that made Mum run inside terrified 
yesterday? His frustration was growing and he ran his hands over his drying face 
as he studied the door.
Glancing around the frame and hinges, he almost smiled. Of course. It opened the 
other way. How fucking stupid was he, he thought as he grabbed the knob again 
and yanked the door firmly open, ready to face whoever was on the other side.
It seemed for a split second as if there was some resistance, as if a small 
child had grasped at the handle and tried to stop him from coming in, and then 
it was gone. These strange old houses ... The thought died before it really 
began, and for a second nothing seemed to make sense as he let go of the door 
handle, all his energy needed to understand what his optic nerves were 
desperately trying to process. He wasn't ready to face the person on the other 
side. Not ready at all. It was her eyes that he saw first, and it seemed that 
that was all he could see, would be able to see, despite the fact that his 
peripheral vision, almost tunnel-like, told him that Kay, Kay Chambers, his 
childhood friend, was hanging naked from a beam in her bedroom. But
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it was her awful eyes that held him, wide and terrified and so full of hate, 
hatred for him, above the tape that covered her mouth. His own mouth hung open 
as he stared, and as his brain tried to pull itself back from madness, he 
wondered if she was still screaming behind the shiny black gag.
A wet, slick sound tore his eyes downward and he started to moan, no tape to 
hold his anguish in. Something had come out of her, was still coming out of her, 
red and bloody like afterbirth, slowly slopping to the ground beneath her pale 
legs, trailing on the floorboards. A glint of steel flashed teasingly from its 
tangled nest within the shiny gray and pink mess that seemed to have crawled 
toward him and his mind struggled to comprehend its meaning, before looking back 
up at the twitching, defiled body strung up before him.
Kay's head was hanging down now, those deathwatch eyes hidden from view, but the 
sight of one foot, her left foot dancing by itself beneath the redness, below 
the destruction of her stomach, made the bile burn in his chest. Rolling outward 
into the corridor, unable to trust his balance to keep him upright, and not 
wanting to collapse there where he stood, not amongst all that... he slid down 
the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. Hugging his knees to himself, he started to 
shake.
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128
129 
Chapter Sixteen
"Paul?"
Despite Simon and Mary's protests, Alex had come after Paul, hoping that maybe 
if they spent some time alone she might get him to open up about Melanie Parr 
and whatever it was about that long-gone child that bothered him so much. 
Keeping her head down against the torrent of rain, not really knowing why she 
was bothering since she was soaked through already, she pushed her tired limbs 
up the cobbled street. It wasn't like Paul to be so closed up, to have secrets 
that he didn't want to share. From the corner of her eye she saw that the door 
to Kay Chambers's house was slightly open. She paused for a second and stared at 
it. Maybe Kay had burned something baking and was letting fresh air in. Or maybe 
she'd let Paul in and he hadn't shut the door behind him properly. Looking up 
the street, there was no sign of her cousin--in fact, there was no sign of 
anyone; not even in the country would
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people go out in this weather unless they had to, and she figured he must be in 
with Kay.
She tapped on the wood. "Kay? You home? The door's open." Only silence answered 
her. "Kay? Laura?" Again nothing. Stepping into the well lit hallway, she left 
the door open behind her. "Hello?" The air felt damp, as if the rain had been 
slowly penetrating the opening for some time, and Alex moved farther into the 
house. The same uneasy feeling she had in the church was tapping at her heart 
and stomach.
"Kay? Paul?" Her voice dropped from a shout and she fought to keep it above a 
whisper, her nerves jangling slightly. It was the middle of the day--what was 
there to feel nervous about? Oh, I don't know, she answered herself, children 
that visit in the night and disappear, dead vicars, people obsessing with a dead 
girl. What's there to be nervous about in all that? Her inner sarcasm made her 
smile a little. Irony was something she was getting good at these days, even if 
it did tend to be tinged with bitterness.
The kitchen was empty except for the chill of the fresh air that had taken up 
its surly residence, lingering on the surfaces just long enough to deposit the 
damp carried on its back before moving relentlessly on. The wood of the door 
frame was cold beneath her touch as she ran back into the hall, a morbid shiver 
running down her spine. Cold as death. As if any warmth of life had left the 
house itself.
Standing at the base of the stairs, she stared upward for a second before 
starting to climb, not calling out this time. Kay was probably just having a 
nap. She knew the other woman wouldn't be upset at Alex 
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wandering around her house given the circumstances, but Alex still felt like 
something of an interloper as she made her way up the creaky stairs.
Halfway up, she froze, a giggle wafting down to her. An awful giggle followed by 
whispered words that she couldn't make out. Her ears strained to hear. Who was 
that? It's the giggle you heard last night. Inside and outside, then inside the 
closet. The one that scared the little boy so much. She doesn't know you can 
hear her. She doesn't know you're in between. Pushing the thought that she 
didn't really understand to one side, she concentrated on what was real, what 
she could feel, the thick solid banister under her fingers. It felt cool against 
her hot skin.
As she rounded to the second flight, Paul's huddled figure came into view. For a 
horrible moment, Alex's breath caught in her throat at the sight of his body 
curled in on itself protectively against the wall above her, so still, so 
lifeless, and her legs pushed faster to reach him. Flashbacks of finding the 
vicar burst into life behind her eyes. Not again. Surely that couldn't happen 
again. What was going on here?
"Paul?" This time she could barely force a whisper, and her hand shook as she 
reached forward to touch his shoulder.
His arm was warm, and as his head rose slowly, Alex felt her breath run out of 
her lungs. "Oh God, Paul, you scared me. Are you okay? Are you okay?" Crouching 
beside him, she clutched at his face, wanting so desperately to feel the warmth 
of his skin, the softness of his cheeks. His eyes were hollow sockets, the color 
almost drained from their pupils, and he groaned, 
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twisting his face away feebly, the weight of his skull heavy in Alex's arms. She 
pulled him back to face her, her anxiety making her almost aggressive.
"What happened, Paul? Where's Kay? Where's Laura?"
He met her gaze for a moment before his eyeballs rolled backward, back toward 
the door.
"She's in there. She's dead."
His emotionless words hit her hard, as if the air in them were punching her 
backward. "Kay's dead? But she can't be." Alex stared at Paul waiting for some 
kind of response, but he kept his eyes away from her, still focused with almost 
lifeless dread on the open bedroom doorway.
Pulling herself to her feet, feeling them shake slightly below her, Alex glanced 
into the bedroom. For a second she felt the world shift beneath her as she 
looked into the nightmare that had been her friend's death, and for a second she 
thought the grief might be overwhelming, destroying whatever was left of her 
spirit inside, but as she forced her eyes to take in the full view, a coolness 
washed through her as if the rain had somehow finally seeped inside her skin. 
This can't touch me. This is done. This can't touch me. In that instant her own 
clarity, her sudden composure, terrified her as if she was the still center of a 
storm.
"Where's Laura, Paul? Did you see Laura?" Her voice felt like it was coming from 
someone else, but it was strong and calm. She stared at her dead friend, whose 
future she had envied, like she'd envied everyone she knew over the past few 
months, the irony not lost on her. Kay, who'd been so full of life, was dead and 
gone;
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but Alex, riddled with cancer, was still living. They all fought their own 
battles, but they were all dust in the end. It was all just a matter of time. 
Paul stayed silent, but he shrugged slightly, and Alex wondered what damage had 
been done to him in that split second. How many more battles would he have to 
fight inside because of this?
She looked down the corridor, and seeing the closed door to Laura's room, made 
her way toward it, the colors on the walls seeming brighter, like she was even 
seeing more clearly. Maybe you're not reacting like other people would because 
you're not like them. How about that? Not anymore. Not like Kay, but not like 
them, either. Paul and the others can't hear the clock ticking as loudly as you 
can. You're in between. She reached for the handle.
"Nooooo! No! Don't touch it! Don't touch it!"
Forgetting about the door, forgetting about everything as Paul's scream slashed 
at her, she spun around to see him stumbling to his feet, those agonized, urging 
eyes pleading for her to freeze where she stood.
"What? Whatisit, Paul?"
Shaking his head, his words came in sobs. "I opened the door." His eyes wandered 
to Kay's room before bringing their sorrow back to Alex. "Don't you see? I 
opened the door." He paused before repeating the words in a whisper to the chill 
air. "I opened the door."
Alex looked back at the floor in Phil and Kay Chambers's bedroom. The metal 
hooks flashed a grin at her before she took in the twisted threads of limp wire 
weaving their awful story. She looked up at Paul and
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saw the full horror of what he'd unwittingly done etched in his expression. Her 
stomach clenched. Maybe I am capable of reacting after all.
Pauls eyes met hers before they both turned to look at the girl's bedroom door, 
and it was her that spoke first.
"We're going to need a ladder."
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Chapter Seventeen
Having got Simon out of the pub, her shaky expression telling him that way too 
much was wrong here, they fetched Daniel Rose, who was still trying in vain to 
get any sort of outside contact from his radio. They sent him to gather the 
villagers to the pub. There was a sense of urgency now. What had happened to the 
vicar could have been a trick that went wrong, but what had happened to Kay was 
calculated and terrible. And if it could happen to Kay, then it could happen to 
any one of them.
Pulling Paul out of the house, Alex tugged the door locked shut behind them. No 
one else needed to go in and see what they'd seen. Crouch was fetching his long 
ladder from the coal shack at the back of the pub, and it was inevitable that as 
people came down to the pub, they would wonder what the hell was going on at the 
Chambers's place. Beside her, Paul froze. "It's gone."
"What's gone?"
"The writing on the window. When I came down
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here there was writing in the window. Like finger writing in steam. It said, 
'Come inside, Paul. Let's play fishing with Kay' And now it's gone."
Alex stared at the smooth panes of glass. They were clear. "Why would someone 
write a message to you on the glass? How would anyone know you were coming?"
Paul let out a long sigh. "Because there is some very weird shit going on." He 
stared at Alex. "Don't you think?"
Standing there in silence, Alex couldn't deny it. But she knew that whatever it 
was, it had to have something to do with that Melanie Parr girl. It just had to. 
And when they had everyone together in the pub, she was determined to find out 
what it was.
She had tried to pull her thick, long hair into a makeshift plait, but strands 
blew loose in the wind, dancing around her head as she stared up at where Simon 
and Crouch were trying to balance the creaking ladder against the uneven cottage 
wall and the slick cobbles beneath their feet. Water stung her eyes, forcing 
them shut.
Was little Laura hanging up in there like her mother? Who would do that to a 
child? Maybe another child. She thought of the frightened little boy who had 
appeared in her room, and again at the church, and the two stranger children 
they'd seen on the way to the shop. And then there was the giggle she'd heard at 
Kay's house, just like the one that had woken her the night before. Who was 
that? You know damned well who it was. You just don't want to admit it, because 
then you'll have to admit that Paul is right and there's some crazy shit going 
on here. But you know who it was. It was Melanie Parr. The Catcher Man brought 
her back. How about that for an answer? Just how much
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can you blame on the morphine? Staring, she watched Simon take a first tentative 
step up the slick rungs of the ladder. What was happening to the village 
tonight? And how were they supposed to stop it?
James Partridge came alongside her, silently watching the activity. He was a 
quiet, dependable man who never spoke much, but when he did there was a soft 
warmth in his tone that let you know still waters could sometimes run deep.
"What's going on in there, Alex?"
She glanced up at him and watched the rain run through the crevasses of his 
weathered face, trying to avoid his eyes as he studied her.
He didn't wait for an answer. "Your Aunt Mary don't seem too well, either. My 
Jan is sitting with her, but she won't say a word."
Alex's eyes drifted back to the ladder and watched as Simon started to climb 
more confidently, the base held firmly by Crouch and Tom, old farmer Tucker's 
eldest.
She didn't look at James, but just followed Simon's feet, rung by rung, as she 
spoke. "Kay's dead." Her voice was almost as soft as his, and he leaned so close 
to hear her that she could feel the vague touch of his breath warming her face. 
"So is Reverend Barker. And we're trying to find out what's happened to Laura." 
This time she did look at him. His dark eyes were wide, but he stayed silent as 
she spoke. "What's going on? I don't have a fucking clue. But I wish I knew. I 
really, really wish I knew." Turning away, she stepped forward, needing a small 
space of her own, but he stepped up beside her.
He kept his eyes forward and his voice low. "Do you
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think it's got anything to do with these strange children in the town?"
Alex stared at him. "What do you mean?"
He swallowed, hesitant. "Seems the town's been full of children since the rain 
came. Jan saw a few hiding in the trees when she went out to round up the 
chickens. Thought she was seeing things when she told me, but I've changed my 
mind now. Seen a few today, myself. Playing games on street corners, mainly 
dressed wrong for the weather." He looked down at Alex, unused to this much 
speech. "I couldn't help but feel they were watching us. Watching and laughing." 
He paused. "And you might think I'm crazy for saying this, and perhaps I am, but 
one or two of them seemed ever so familiar. Like I'd seen their faces somewhere 
before."
Alex stared at him for what seemed like a very long time. "I don't think you're 
crazy. I think it might have something to do with the children. I just don't 
know what. Or maybe we're both crazy. Who knows." They stood in silence after 
that, just watching and thinking.
Simon was almost level with the window and Alex's heart started to race as he 
took the last step and leaned forward, peering into the glass. He seemed to 
stare for an eternity before straightening up and starting his descent. Alex met 
him as he reached the ground and grabbed at his arm. "Well?"
He shook his head, his face full of disbelief. "She's not there. She's not in 
there." He looked back up at the window. "If she's not in there, then where the 
hell is she? Where is she?"
They were still standing there gathered round the ladder when Daniel Rose ran 
down the street toward
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them, the awkward movement of an old man who'd done little running in too many 
years.
"We've got a problem." Staring at the red of his face, Alex couldn't make out 
what was covering it more, rain or sweat. "Little Peter Granville's gone 
missing. Emma's almost hysterical, poor thing; doesn't know how long he's been 
gone. Dawn Wilbur's helping her get the other kids together, and then they're 
coming down here."
Alex's heart sank. Petey could only be about three or four. Why would he wander 
off on his own? "Laura's missing too."
Daniel stared at her. "Emma says that Laura was over playing with her kids this 
morning, and then after a couple of hours said she wasn't feeling well and left. 
Maybe wherever they are, they're together."
Alex peered frantically into the rain. God, she hoped that Laura and Pete were 
together. At least the little boy would have a chance in this weather with 
someone else. The sky had darkened so much with the weight of the storm that she 
could barely see the end of the street. "We've got to try and find them. We've 
got to."
James held her slim shoulders. "We can't go looking in this rain. Not while it's 
so dark. We got no chance of seeing anything, let alone finding anyone, and the 
weather'll make it too dangerous. Let's at least talk to the other Granville 
children first. They may have an idea where they could have gone." He looked up 
at Daniel, who nodded.
"He's right. We can't search in this, Alex, not without any idea of where to 
look. I'll get back and keep trying the radio. We've got to get hold of the 
police somehow."
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Alex suddenly wanted to scream at them for their calm demeanor as they talked to 
her. Turning away from Simon, ignoring the offered crook of his arm, she risked 
slipping on the cobbles and strode back to the pub, needing a couple of seconds 
to vent her anger. They were right. She knew they were right. But that didn't 
make her feel any better. Hearing Simon's feet coming quickly behind her, she 
sped up, reached for the heavy wood, and swung the door open into the warmth and 
light of the pub.
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Chapter Eighteen
Jenny and Jimmy were clutching each other's hands so tightly that Alex could see 
the whites of their knuckles screaming through the skin as they sat down at a 
table in the restaurant area of the pub. Emma was in the bar, still crying, 
while Crouch tried to get her to drink a brandy, and someone had gone out to 
check that Dr. Jones was on his way. Emma Granville was definitely going to need 
something to help calm her down if Petey didn't get found soon. Especially if 
and when she heard about what had happened to the vicar and Kay.
Taking Jenny's spare hand, Alex rubbed it gently. "I'm sure Pete's fine, really. 
But we need to know if there's anywhere that he hides or if he's got any places 
he likes to go to play."
Jenny didn't speak, but Jimmy shook his head. "Pete never goes off by himself. 
He's not like that. Never." The boy's eyes were shaking, challenging Alex to 
accuse him of lying. He was angry, she could see that, and he didn't have anyone 
to vent his anger and emotion on.
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If he wanted to snap at her, that was fine. She could take it. She decided on a 
change of tack.
"Laura's missing too. She was at your house this morning, wasn't she?"
Both children nodded.
"What time did she leave?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Not really sure. She was fine and we were watching a movie to 
pass the time till the rain stopped. Then she went to the bathroom. When she 
came back she said she wasn't feeling well and was going home." His voice broke 
a little. "I wasn't really paying attention."
Jenny suddenly let out a small gasp of air. "There was something odd, though. 
But it's probably nothing."
"What?" Alex leaned forward slightly. "What was odd?"
"Well, when we were sitting upstairs she asked if we'd had any text messages. 
She said she'd had some odd ones this morning. But when she tried to turn the 
phone on to show us, the battery must have died."
"I thought you said there wasn't any signal out here."
"There never is." Jimmy shot Simon a glare. "We never normally turn our phones 
on unless we're at school. No point."
Alex focused on Jenny. "Did she say who these texts were from?"
"I can't remember. A girl. She said she wanted Laura to play with her."
"Melanie," Jimmy cut in. "Laura said the girl's name was Melanie and she was 
lonely."
Pulling her hand back from the girl's, Alex stared at Simon. Melanie. Melanie 
Parr. Once again this missing girl seemed to be at the center of an awful event. 
What was happening? Surely the village wasn't being
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haunted? It couldn't be. That kind of shit just wasn't real. The same questions 
flared back at her from Simon's eyes.
"We need to get to the bottom of this."
Simon nodded. "I know we said it was pointless going out and looking for the 
children in this weather, but if no one can get a car out with the roads flooded 
and that bloody overturned lorry, then I think it's time someone tried to get 
out on foot. Is there a way through the woods or something that Paul and I could 
try? At least that way we can shout for them and try and get help."
"Yes, you should be able to find your way through. If Paul has kept his 
childhood bearings, that is." Standing up, Alex left the children with Dawn 
Wilbur and went with Simon back to the bar. "I'll stay here, and when we've 
finally got the villagers gathered I'll see if I can push them for information 
about Melanie Parr. And see if anyone knows anything about these creepy 
children."
"What's going on?" James Partridge stood between the two of them.
"Paul and Simon are going to try and get out of the village through the woods. 
The road is blocked, so no one can get out that way, plus the river will have 
flooded it by now. We really need to get the police here." The words sounded 
good, but Alex wondered just what the police would make of what was going on in 
the sleepy village of Watterrow. Two deaths and the rest of the people seeing 
things. She and Mary weren't the only ones to have had weird experiences in the 
past twenty-four hours. There were too many people looking troubled and staring 
into their drinks dotted around her in The Rock, their eyes slipping from each
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other, for that to be the case. There was something secretive about them. As if 
they thought that something was very wrong with their head or themselves. She 
knew that look. She'd worn it too many times since the clock started ticking 
loudly inside her.
The villagers that were just suffering from the shock of finding out about Kay 
and the vicar were chatting animatedly to each other. How awful, how terrible, 
who could possibly be doing this in their village? All normal hyper reactions. 
She remembered it from 9/11. It was the rest that made Alex think that whatever 
weirdness had gripped the town, ghostly or not, it was holding it tightly.
"Alex?" Paul's grip on her arm brought her back to the conversation at hand.
"Sorry, I was just... well... just thinking, I guess."
"We're going to go out in two pairs. Simon and I will take the route out by the 
old tin mines, which should lead us close enough to Wiwy, and James and Tom 
Tucker reckon they know another way that will bring them out by Bampton 
somewhere. One pair should find their way out, and going two ways will also give 
us more chance of coming across the kids."
"Sounds good." Even Emma Granville was looking calmer knowing that someone was 
going to be out in the woods looking for her baby, or at least getting some 
help. "I'll check on Ada and Daniel and then maybe get some food going here. You 
guys should at least take a flask of something to keep you warm if you get 
lost."
Simon grinned. "Is that the hint of a maternal streak?"
Despite the fact that they were meant as a joke, Alex felt the words like a slap 
in the face. Maternal streak?
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Ha. What would be the point of that? It was her reproductive system that was 
killing her, after all.
"No." Her voice was chilled. "Just practical thinking."
For a second she enjoyed seeing the wobble on Simon's smile as he tried to 
figure out just what he'd said to piss her off, and then the pettiness of it 
overwhelmed her. Kay was dead. The vicar was dead. And more than that, how the 
hell was Simon supposed to know about her? She gave him a wan smile. "And men 
are rubbish when they get a cold."
The four men were ready to leave with rope and torches when Crouch tentatively 
suggested that one pair take the shotgun he kept behind the bar, and the other a 
large knife. Paul and Simon stared at each other for a moment before Paul nodded 
toward Tom. "You take it. I haven't shot one of those things since I was a kid. 
I'd probably just blow my own foot off."
Nodding, Tom gripped the gun and held it over his shoulder. "At least you'll 
know if we get in trouble. Even in this weather, you'll hear it if I have to 
fire this thing."
Paul looked down at the large kitchen knife in his hand. "Well, I guess if we 
get into trouble I'll just have to scream my head off." He smiled. "Which won't 
be a problem."
Listening to their banter, Alex felt her heart racing. She wasn't sure that guns 
and knives would work with whatever they were up against. "Just get out of the 
village and get some help." She paused, watching them zip up their coats and get 
ready to head out into the encroaching dark. "And take care."
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146
147 
Chapter Nineteen
Simon set a brisk pace along the stretch of pavement, Paul indicating where they 
should turn to take the shortcut around the back of some of the houses and out 
into the woods. As soon as they stepped off the concrete and onto the soft 
earth, Simon felt the ground working against his feet and his heart sank. It was 
going to be hard work. According to Paul, they had at least three or four miles 
to go, most of it uphill. Still, he didn't shorten his stride. The quicker they 
got through the trees and to the next village the better.
The rain pattered heavily through the leaves above them, running together and 
falling in weighty drops, and Simon paused to zip his coat right up to his chin. 
Paul was a few paces behind and as he came alongside, Simon could hear his 
friend was already a little out of breath. Behind them he could see the lights 
glowing from The Rock and for a moment wished that he'd stayed in that warmth. 
Whatever was going on in this strange little town was really none of his 
business.
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And then he thought of Alex. There was something about her that connected with 
him and he hoped that maybe when all this was over he could persuade her to go 
out on an old-fashioned date with him. So maybe this shit was his business a 
little bit, after all.
He looked at Paul, his cheeks puffing as he breathed. They'd only walked about 
fifteen minutes and still had a long way to go. If he didn't have Paul with him, 
Simon figured he'd make the journey in pretty good time, but he knew that his 
friend wasn't going to be able to match his own pace for long.
"You okay, mate?"
Paul nodded. "If you mean will I be able to keep up, then yes. I'll give it my 
best shot. I don't want to be in these woods any longer than I have to. Not in 
this weather."
They walked side by side in silence, picking their way through the patches of 
slippery leaves and slimy tree roots, all the time their feet sliding half a 
pace back with each step. For a while there was just the sound of their own 
breathing and the weather; the village behind them had totally disappeared. 
Simon sniffed and broke the peace. "You know this town, Paul. Who do you think 
is doing this stuff? You don't really think kids could have done that to Kay, do 
you?"
Paul laughed, but it was devoid of warmth. After what had happened to him today, 
Simon thought it would be long time before he heard Paul's rich, earthy, 
devil-may-care laugh again.
"What's so funny?"
Paul trudged ahead. "Trust me, you really don't want to know what I think."
"If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked."
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"I should have known the little cow would come back. I should have known it." 
Paul's voice was weary, and Simon grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and look 
at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"You want to know who I think is doing all this? Melanie Fucking Parr." Simon 
shook his head. "That's crazy. Melanie Parr's dead."
"Maybe she is. And that scares the shit out of me, because she was scary enough 
when she was alive." Paul's voice was getting louder, somewhere between a laugh 
and a shout. "And now she's leaving messages in windows, scaring old women, 
leaving her name on the fucking vicar's dying breath, and if she's dead then I 
don't know how we can stop her, because Melanie never got bored of playing 
games. Never." He took a deep breath, calming himself. "And I think she's going 
to play with us until we're all dead, just like her." He stared at Simon. "Now 
you can call me crazy if you like. But you didn't know Melanie Parr. You didn't 
know what she was capable of."
The stillness uncomfortable, Simon started to walk again, his long stride 
matching his heartbeat. "What did you mean? Last night you said you barely 
remembered her."
Paul sighed. "I lied." Grimacing, he matched Simon's steps. "Although I wish it 
were true. She was an evil little bitch. She made my life hell." He sniffed, the 
exercise having made his nose run. "Not just mine. Most of us kids. She scared 
us."
Despite himself, Simon couldn't help but feel disappointed in his friend. 
Secrets and lies. Everybody had them. "Okay, so tell me about it. Tell me what 
she was
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like, what she did. I think it's about fucking time someone started saying 
something about her."
For about five minutes, Paul stayed silent, and then, as if having made peace 
with himself and the memories he was dragging back to the forefront, he began to 
speak. Despite his city lifestyle having taken its toll on his body, he didn't 
get out of breath as he climbed the muddy inclines, reaching for a branch here 
or there to ease his way, speaking quietly and clearly. It was as if he were so 
far in the past he'd forgotten how out of shape the Paul of the present was. It 
was Simon who was sucking oxygen hard into his lungs, keeping alongside, 
listening to his friend bringing Melanie Parr back to life.
"When Melanie and her mother arrived in the village, it caused quite a stir. Us 
kids were only seven or eight, but even we could tell. You know, listening to 
our mothers talking in that really excited, serious way women do when they're 
gossiping." He smiled slightly, immersing himself in the memory.
"Mrs. Parr was very glamorous. There wasn't really anyone like that in the 
village or even in Wiwy, not that was part of our day-to-day lives. She dressed 
like someone out of the movies, or at least it seemed like that to us. I guess 
looking back, she was just a city girl with a few nice dresses and a couple 
pairs of high heels, but compared to the sensible shoes of the farmers' wives 
and women like my mother, who only really dressed for church on Sunday's, she 
may as well have been Marilyn Monroe. Alex's mum, my aunt Alicia, was beautiful, 
but in an ethereal way, not red-lipped and nail-varnished like Mrs. Parr."
"And of course, Mrs. Parr was a divorcee. The rest of
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the country might have got their heads round that issue, but in this part of the 
world marriage was still for life. She seemed dangerous and exciting to our 
mothers, and they decided that the best way to get close to her was to ensure 
that we all got close to Melanie." He smiled slightly. "There were a lot of tea 
and garden parties that summer, and whether we wanted her to or not, Melanie 
Parr became part of our gang. I guess we didn't mind at first; I don't remember 
minding, I just remember thinking that she wasn't really like us. Even when she 
was laughing, it seemed she had a secret, but then I was never sure of kids when 
I first met them. I'd get all shy and then my stutter would get much worse." He 
ignored the water that strayed into his mouth. "God, I was a geek. But me aside, 
I don't remember any of us thinking anything very much about her in those first 
few weeks. Ironic really, considering how she fucked about with our lives so 
much in the couple of years that came after."
Simon's foot sank suddenly, and in danger of sliding downhill with the mud, he 
grabbed a thin sapling, bending it under his bodyweight, and yanked himself 
free. "Who was in your gang?"
"Most of the kids from the village. Me, Tom, Kay, her sister, James Rose, a few 
others. Alex, of course, was a few years from being born at that point. She was 
lucky enough to miss out on all this. The rest of us all went to the primary 
school in Wiwy, but before then there'd been a nursery in Watterrow, so we'd 
played together forever. It was easy. All our families knew each other. We were 
always in and out of each other's houses, playing in the farms and the woods. We 
had so much energy in those days. But our games were pretty 
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simple until Melanie started playing. She liked to play games with your head. I 
don't think any of us liked them. Or liked ourselves for playing them."
"What kind of games?" Simon was relieved to feel the ground level out slightly. 
They were definitely making better time than he'd thought they would, Paul not 
slowing them down. And at least his story was taking both their minds off the 
growing ache in their legs and the thought that there might be two children lost 
in the woods somewhere.
Again Paul let out that dead laugh. "What kind of games? Twisted ones. The kind 
you would never tell anyone about. Like when we built the pirate station out on 
the river. Kay wasn't really happy about it. She didn't mind playing on the 
bank, but she was scared of water then. Think she always was. We never really 
talked about it after that. And you know how it is. The older you get the harder 
you try to cover your weaknesses. And we never really talked about the things 
that happened back then. When Melanie was gone it was easier to just try and 
forget them.
"Anyway, Melanie persuaded her to swim over to this raft thing we'd built that 
was tied to an old oak tree on the other side leading up to the woods. Kay was 
really scared and shaking, but Melanie was good at making you do stuff." 
Darkness bent his brow. "And then using it against you."
He paused a moment before going back to his story. "She said it would be good 
for Kay. Help her get over her fears. Said she'd swim with her. The rest of us 
waited on the bank."
"Who else was there?"
"Me, Tom Tucker and Joe. I'll tell you about Joe in a
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minute. Anyway, they get to this raft, which was really no more than a few 
branches and logs inexpertly tied together, and we all start cheering and Kay 
almost relaxes, when all of a sudden, Melanie lets go of her, dives down and 
swims back to us, climbing out with this great big grin on her face.
"Kay was yelling for her to come back, clutching at the biggest log, which 
looked like it might come away from its binding, she was holding onto it so 
hard. Tom was about to get in the water to go out to her when Melanie spoke in 
that clear butter-wouldn't-melt voice that she had. 'Maybe we'll leave you 
there, Kay' she said. 'How would you like that? Do you think you could get back 
here by yourself?'
"I could see Kay looking around her, and for a minute it looked like she was 
sure she could swim that far, even with her flailing doggy-style strokes, and 
then Melanie carried on, all smooth and confident, saying stuff like, 'Did you 
feel the tug of the current, Kay? I had to fight it helping you over there. It 
wouldn't take a second for it to suck you down, pull you under, not with the way 
you swim. You're weak, Kay. The river would drag you down. Down to the weeds 
that'd wrap round your legs and hold you tight. And then none of us would be 
able to help you, no matter how hard we might want to. All that water going into 
your lungs as you try to breathe. I wonder what it feels like.'" Paul shook his 
head, irritated at his own inadequate retelling.
"It's difficult to explain why she was so effective. It was something in her 
voice. It made you believe in her, just for a little while. 'Maybe we'll just 
sit here and watch,' she said, and we did. Me and Tom sat down and
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enjoyed Kay crying and begging for help. Joe grumbled for a bit and then 
squatted beside us. After half an hour, even though it was a warm day, Kay was 
shivering. That river was cold, the summers are never long enough to warm it up 
properly, and her feet were going numb.
"Joe started cursing under his breath, not fascinated by this, not like the rest 
of us, not at all, but Melanie just watched Kay, her blond hair tucked carefully 
behind her ear and her voice normal, as if she were talking about anything, and 
that made it scarier, and she said, 'You'll never make it back now, Kay, will 
you? You're too cold. Your muscles just won't work properly for you. It's just 
about time now. Just waiting. Will you let go of the wood now, or in an hour? 
How far will you get before you sink? How long can you hold your breath under 
water? Which of us will try to save you first? All these questions, and the 
outcome will be just the same. Water in your lungs.'"
He looked up at Simon, searching for some kind of understanding. "I mean, we 
were eight years old. Have you ever heard a child talk like that? She mesmerized 
us."
Simon didn't know what kind of comfort he could offer his friend except just 
listening, and Paul looked back down at his feet.
"It was weird. It was like I wasn't myself and Kay wasn't Kay. Watching her 
panic, her fear, and knowing that we had the power to prolong it or stop it, 
released some kind of primal thing in us. I can't explain it and part of me 
hated it, but god, I was eight years old and it was the closest to a hard-on 
that a kid of that age can get. And it was Melanie that was doing it."
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Rain ran through Simon's hair and almost into his eyes, but he didn't really 
notice. He was absorbed in the hot sunny day of over thirty years ago. "What 
happened? I mean Kay didn't drown, so did she swim?"
Paul shook his head. "No, she couldn't have let go of that log if she tried. It 
was Joe. He spat on the ground at my feet and dived in. It took him ten minutes 
of gentle coaxing to get her to put her arms round his neck and let him swim her 
back to the bank. I don't know how long we'd have been there if he hadn't. And I 
don't really know what would have happened. It was like the minute he got in the 
water, the spell was broken. I was young, and it only took that few minutes 
before she got out of the water to convince myself that I had been only seconds 
away from doing the same, and it was just a silly joke, and no one would really 
have let her drown, but looking back I'm not so sure. Something dark happened 
that afternoon. Something dark that Melanie let out from inside us.
"When she was a little calmer and warmer, Joe took Kay home, and me and Tom and 
Melanie wandered back in silence. I think Tom was trying to figure out what had 
just gone on, the same as I was. Only Melanie didn't seem to care. She'd just 
enjoyed the game.
"I thought that would be the end of Melanie being in our gang. I mean Kay was 
hardly going to want her around after that, but I underestimated Melanie. I 
think that afternoon was almost like a little test she set us, and we all 
passed. Except for Joe. You see, the next day, it was me that Kay wasn't talking 
to. Melanie had told her that it was all my idea, it was my idea to scare her 
and Melanie had just been a pawn in my game, with her innocent face and 
angel-blond hair, and she felt so bad
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about it, but that she knew how Kay could get me back, and Kay was too mad to 
really think about what she was hearing, and Melanie said why didn't they go 
into my house and steal my mothers purse, take the money and leave the purse in 
my bedroom, and wouldn't that be fun as well as revenge? It was so easy for 
them; no one locks their doors around here now, let alone then, and they did it 
bold as brass while we were all in the garden relaxing. They just snuck into the 
house and did it.
"My father was still alive then, and I got the belt like I'd never had it 
before. I couldn't sit down for nearly a week. Couldn't stop crying, either. My 
dad just wasn't like that; he wasn't the violent type. I think it hurt him as 
much as it hurt me, but it didn't hurt either of us as much as it hurt my mother 
to think I'd done something like that to her. And how could I explain that I 
hadn't?
"And then Melanie came to see me, and told me that Kay had done it, she knew 
because Kay had told her, and she'd seen the lucky trinket silver horse my mum 
kept in the small key ring of her purse in Kay's bedroom, and why didn't we go 
and have a look?"
Paul let out a small sad laugh. "Can you see where this is going? So, of course, 
I did go with her and take a look, sneaking around someone else's house without 
a care, as if I did it every day of the week, even though I'd never have dreamed 
of doing it before that, not without Melanie there, and lo and behold, there was 
my mother's charm, sitting on Kay's bedside table. And of course, Melanie had a 
way that I could get right back at Kay." He stopped walking and leaned against a 
tree, taking a deep breath.
Despite his eagerness to get to the other side of the woods, Simon was pleased 
to pause for a moment,
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needing to rest his legs too. He didn't speak, not wanting to interrupt Paul's 
flow. "She really played us well. I don't know how many of us kids she got like 
that, but it wasn't only me that couldn't look people in the eye during that 
time. She loved making us hurt each other, and then she loved our guilt. Christ 
knows what she would have become if she hadn't disappeared.
"The only kid I know she didn't get to was Joe Barnes. Joe was a city kid too, 
and his family hadn't been here long before Melanie and her mum arrived. They 
lived out past Venn cross, a few miles up the road, but Joe always came down to 
play with the Watterrow kids. Joe's dad had just bought the old petrol station 
up there. It had been a local family business, and some of the older generations 
were a bit put out by it. Didn't really like the idea of Londoners coming in and 
making a killing out of selling vital supplies.
"Of course, that wasn't what was happening. Joe's family barely made a living, 
let alone a fortune, but the bare facts never win over xenophobia, and a lot of 
people boycotted them. Still, the Barnes's persevered, knowing that people would 
come round in the end, and in the main they were right.
"Anyway," he continued, his breathing was becoming more labored now as they 
approached the top of the muddy slope, "one day after school, about four months 
into all this craziness, Joe came to see me. He said Kay had been talking to 
him, crying in fact, and saying how she felt bad about the purse and the stuff 
she'd done to some of the other kids with Melanie and that it was beginning to 
really frighten her, and did I know anything more? Had Melanie made me do 
anything to anyone?
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"At first I didn't know what to say. What did he mean Melanie had been there 
when Kay stole my mother's purse? That couldn't be right. But then it all 
started to make sense. After all, Melanie had been there when I'd defaced Kay's 
sister's doll collection and left the marker pens tucked in Kay's favorite bag, 
where I knew her parents would look. In fact, it had been Melanie's idea. And 
then I thought of all the other things I'd done with her over the past few 
months, to people I knew and didn't know. They'd all been Melanie's ideas. Heat 
crept up through me from my toes, a shaky, scared kind of heat.
"Suddenly, I felt dirty. Dirty and ashamed, because I'd enjoyed a lot of what 
I'd done. Despite my vague fear of Melanie, she hadn't really made me do those 
things--she'd just made me want to do them. She'd made me feel it was okay to do 
them, and then I'd enjoyed it. Sneaking into people's houses and causing havoc. 
Leaving a trail of blame. There was something exciting about the whole thing.
"I remember Joe asked me two or three times if I knew anything about it, 
standing there on the playground, all serious, because he was going to tell his 
parents about it because something should be done about her because she wasn't 
right. She just wasn't right. Those were his words. She just wasn't right. He 
tapped the side of his head while he said it.
"I stood there and watched him for two or three minutes, my head cataloging all 
the awful things I'd done over the past few months, some just pranks, and some 
bad enough to make me hang my head with shame even all these years later, and 
fear rose in my stomach, a bad fear, the fear of all those things coming out, 
the fear of the look on my parents' faces. I couldn't get
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found out. I couldn't. And what could I say? I'd done things in his house and 
around the garage that I'd let other people take the blame for. Sprayed things. 
Nasty things on the wall. I think they'd probably made Mrs. Barnes cry. How 
could those things become known? Nothing could be worse than that. Not to me. 
Not then. So I did the stupidest thing I've ever done--I shook my head as if I 
didn't know what he was talking about, and then I walked away.
"I told Melanie what he was planning. I had to. I couldn't deal with it. She 
just nodded, and then she went to Kay's house. I don't know what she said to 
her, I never found out, but it was enough for Kay to go to Joe's and persuade 
him not to tell his parents. It was the day before his ninth birthday. We were 
all invited to a party at his house on the Saturday. It never happened.
Simon could see trees bending in the wind up ahead of them. God, it seemed the 
storm was getting stronger with each step. How much farther did they have to go? 
"So what did happen?" He raised his voice slightly, battling the weather.
"Joe had a cat. It was an old moggy thing. I think the Barnes had it from before 
he was born. It must have been about fifteen. And God, it was huge. All day it 
slept while the family were out. Slept and ate, and saved its energy for when 
Joe was home. Joe made out as if he didn't really care about the cat one way or 
another, but we all knew that was just a fat lie. He loved that cat. What kid 
doesn't love their pet? Anyway, the night that Kay persuaded him not to tell 
about the Melanie stuff, Joe's cat didn't come home. Poor kid probably stayed up 
half the night waiting for it to come in. Cats that old don't normally like 
spending the
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nights hunting, not when they can be curled up on a nice warm bed, and I don't 
think that lazy old moggy was any different.
"The next morning, Joe didn't turn up at school. I figured that it was just that 
his family had let him have the day off school for his birthday and didn't think 
anything of it, but when I got home, my mother and Aunt Alicia were in the 
kitchen, both as white as a sheet. My father was cursing, slamming down his 
whisky glass, still in his work clothes from the dairy farm, saying it was about 
time people got over their prejudices and if they could do something like this 
to a nice family like that then what the hell would happen if a Negro ever dared 
to want to live a nice quiet life in the country? What the hell would happen 
then?
"It took him a couple of minutes before he realized I was there. I asked what 
had happened and my mum said that something bad had happened at the Barnes's 
garage and Joe and his mum had left. His dad was going to stay on until the 
garage was sold. I remember that my heart started beating very, very fast and 
asking what, what had happened that was so bad that Joe would leave without 
saying good-bye. My mother and aunt tried to stop my father from telling me, but 
he said I needed to know, I needed to know what people were capable of, and then 
he told me what had happened to Joe's cat.
"When Joe had got up on his ninth birthday, the first thing he'd done was go 
outside to see if he could call the cat in, worried about the daft thing, his 
head probably full of fox attacks. According to my father, Joe had noticed 
something odd about the wooden sandwich board down in the drive that declared 
the garage
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closed every evening. And, when he got there, he found he was right. There was 
something odd about it. Something horribly odd about it.
"His mother's scream joined her son's when she ran outside to find out what on 
earth was making him yell like that, and it was only the arrival of his father 
that got them both away, having to literally drag the crying Joe inside. You 
see, the cat had been nailed by each paw to the wood, its head lolling backward, 
betraying its broken neck. But the worst part of that unnatural tilt of the 
head, and the bit that probably made Mrs. Barnes scream so terribly loudly, was 
that the cat's eyes were gone. Cut out of its head, only dark bloody sockets 
where they should have been. And underneath the dead cat someone had written in 
the cats own blood, two simple words--Go home. Finger writing. Just like the 
message left for me in Kay's window. Anyway, those two words were enough. The 
Barnes decided to follow those instructions. They left."
Paul leaned forward against the wind and Simon did the same. The ground was 
soaking, and they both sunk two or three inches into the mud, the cold creeping 
into their shoes. Pushing himself forward, Simon listened to Paul's almost 
monotone voice, as if he were spitting this story out from somewhere it had been 
locked away inside him and he just wanted to be rid of it.
"I stood there in that kitchen and didn't know what to say. I don't think I've 
felt anything like that since. Not until this, anyway. I remember thinking that 
I was going to pass out right there on the floor and that it was really going to 
hurt if I landed on my face. I remember trying to speak, desperately trying to 
push the words out, but they
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were trapped inside. I can't explain how frustrating that is. Only stutterers 
know just how mad that makes you when your throat and mouth seize up on you like 
that, and everyone looks at you with pity and impatience, waiting for you to 
make some kind of sound so they can at least have a go at finishing your words 
for you.
"Of course, it probably wouldn't have been so bad if I had known what I was 
trying to say, but I didn't. There were too many things going round in my 
head--Joe, Melanie, all of us, all of the crazy things we'd been doing, and how 
Joe had gone without even saying goodbye. That was like someone had punched me. 
I think that down in my subconscious I was hoping that Joe would be the one to 
get me out of this mess. And now he was gone."
Simon kept his eyes on the row of trees that bobbed up and down with each of his 
labored steps. "Did you ever hear from him?"
"No. I used to think about him a lot, though. Especially after Melanie vanished. 
I think he knew it was her that had done that awful thing to his cat. He was 
bright enough to figure it out, especially since he thought she was crazy 
anyway. I guess he just decided that enough was enough. Just like his family 
did. Anyway, standing there in that kitchen, with the family staring at me, 
probably wondering what the fuck I was trying to say, and why was it affecting 
me that badly, all I could see was Melanie's name almost painted in red behind 
my eyes. I turned and ran out of the house and didn't stop running until I'd got 
to the cottage Mrs. Parr was renting right out on the edge of the woods.
"I went round to the back and through the door and straight up to Melanie's 
bedroom. Sweat was pouring
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down my face, my skin throbbing with the exertion, and as I burst through the 
room, there she was, sitting cross-legged and still on her mattress, surrounded 
by her claustrophobic collection of golden-haired dolls that looked like china 
versions of herself. And she wasn't alone. Kay was there, and Tom and James Rose 
and a couple of smaller kids who were too young to hang out with us, I think 
they were old Alice Moore's nephews come to stay for a while. And they all were 
staring at Melanie, all changed from when we first met. Kay's eyes were lost in 
the dark circles that surrounded them, and Tom's bottom lip was raw from where 
he'd been chewing it nervously, a habit his mother had worked so hard to get him 
out of when we were five or six.
"I didn't say anything, nobody did, and then Melanie grinned, and reached 
beneath the largest doll and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag and held it up. 
The cat's eyes were in it, all shiny and slithery and round, with long cords--I 
suppose they must have been optic nerves or something, attached to the back, 
bloody and pink. Melanie just smiled and said, Anyone want to feel them?' Jesus, 
I've never got out of anywhere so fast in my entire life. I could hear the 
others right behind me, Kay already crying, but I didn't wait for them. I didn't 
even stop when I got outside, but ran the opposite way from the village and into 
the woods, eventually crouching behind a tree, throwing up, and then sobbing my 
heart out."
Simon stopped, cursing slightly as he almost lost his shoe in the mud, leaning 
on Paul's shoulder to retie it. "God, what an awful child."
"That was really just the beginning. Until that point
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she'd been using us to play. After that she began playing with us. Tricks, 
dangerous tricks, tricks that left you hurt and bruised and bleeding. It was 
fucking horrible. I would wake up at night almost not able to breathe. 
Sometimes, she'd leave you alone for a month or so, and you'd just start to 
relax, and bang, she'd be back. Broken glass in your sandwich, or something like 
that. And we were all so scared of her, of what she was capable of, and what she 
knew we'd done, what evidence she had on us, that there was no way we were going 
to tell. Remember what it was like as a kid? Adults were part of a different 
world. They couldn't do anything for us, not really."
"Jesus. Jesus Christ." Simon stared at Paul, wondering at his friend's 
childhood.
"Yeah. It wasn't good. It wasn't good at all." Simon could see Paul's eyes, 
bright white in the darkness as he spoke. "And then one day she disappeared in a 
storm. Gone, just like magic. For a long time, I used to imagine her coming back 
to get me in the middle of the night, and then slowly the dreams faded and life 
went on. But I think what Mum said last night is true-- the dead never really 
leave us. And now it seems that Melanie's come back to get us, after all."
Shaking his head, Simon turned his attention back to making his way over the wet 
ground. Ghosts didn't exist. The idea was crazy, really crazy. "How far now?"
"Once we get over this ridge we should pretty much be free of the woods. Not 
far. A few hundred yards or so."
After ten minutes or so, Simon's thighs were burning with the exertion of 
scrambling up the muddy slope and his hands were filthy from where he'd stumbled
165 
occasionally onto the ground, but at last, up ahead he could make out a break in 
the trees.
"We're nearly out." Paul nodded, and leaning forward, the wind seeming stronger 
even through the protection of the trees, they pushed themselves forward. Simon 
squinted against the rain. Surely the storm couldn't be getting worse? And how 
the hell was the wind coming at them so fast? They weren't out in the open. His 
feet slid slightly in the mud and he felt Paul grab his arm to steady him. He 
took three more steps forward before a gust of wind sent both of them tumbling 
backward, branches slapping at their skin as they fell through the trees.
"What the hell is going on?" Dragging himself back to his feet, Simon had to 
shout, and even then wasn't sure that Paul could hear him. The wind was howling, 
dragging up the heavy wet leaves from the forest floor and launching them at the 
two men. It had gone from a breeze to a gale in seconds, and Simon grabbed Paul, 
pulling him behind an ancient oak tree to stop them from being thrown back the 
way they'd come. The weather roared at them, forcing them to huddle together.
Paul peered around the edge of the bark, his eyes wide. "Look! Look!" He jabbed 
one finger forward, pointing toward the edge of the wood, where the ground 
cleared into a field. Where they should have been walking the last stretch to 
Wiwy. Simon glanced around the other side of the trunk, his fingers gripping the 
bark. Just what the fuck was that? Blue light flashed and crackled through the 
last row of trees, dancing madly from one branch and twig to the next and back 
again. Was it some kind of electrical storm?
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How the hell was it happening just along the perimeter? Christ, he'd never seen 
anything like it. If it was some kind of lightning, wouldn't the branches be 
burning?
Looking to his left and right, trying to shield his eyes from the battering wind 
and rain, he could see the same electricity running through all the trees in 
that last row, the blue lights bright in the gloom. Whatever it was, he didn't 
fancy walking through it. Not with all this water around. Shit. If they were 
going to get out of the forest, they weren't going to do it this way. Not 
without getting fried. Feeling the strength of the storm, he wasn't even sure 
they would make it back to the pub. Beside him Paul's face was lit up with 
dreadful wonder, and Simon shook him to get his attention.
"What do we do now?" He was shouting, but couldn't hear his own words. Paul just 
stared at him.
"Is there a shelter near here we can get to?" He was screaming the words out, 
halfway through the sentence when the wind suddenly stopped, his words filling 
the silence. His face tingled with the sudden release from the attack on his 
skin. He stared at Paul, neither men needing the tree for support anymore, the 
rain just falling gently through the trees, the air still. Just what the hell 
was going on?
Cautiously stepping backward, Simon could see the blue crackle still running 
through the boundary trees. Despite the strange calm there was a palpable 
tension all around them. From somewhere behind him a giggle ran through the 
trees and both men spun round.
"Laura? Laura? Is that you?" Shadows seemed to dart through the trees and bushes 
around them, but there was no answer to Simon's shout. The giggle came
167 
again, but this time from a different direction. After a second it was matched 
by another, maybe a boy's, and then another, higher and lighter. Younger. 
Spinning round, Simon was sure he saw a flash of shoes and legs darting through 
the trees. And then a bare leg. Something and nothing. There but not there.
"What the fuck is going on?" Simon stared at Paul.
"Games." Paul barely whispered the word, his eyes darting from tree to tree. 
"She's playing games."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think she's going to let us leave the village, do you?"
Simon looked back at the electrified trees, and then stared back at the silent 
wood around them. "This is a really fucked up situation. Really fucked up."
"Yes, it is. But I think we'd better try heading back to the pub. Maybe get to 
the Tucker place. That's closer." He stared at Simon, his eyes blank, and then 
into the waiting trees. "Let's just hope we get there."
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168
169 
Chapter Twenty
In the clearing there is perfect stillness, and despite the gray of the sky 
above, no water falls here. He lets out a sigh that shakes the trees and then 
sits down heavily on the dead trunk, which had fallen some time after his last 
visit to this place. Not that he's sure how long that is. Time has little 
meaning for him. He just knows there have been other people, other ways, and 
long periods of dark slumber.
He rests his heavy head in his hands, the long leather coat creaking with the 
movement, and beneath his fingers feels the smooth ridges of his naked skull. 
For a moment he shuts his eyes, enjoying the darkness. If only there was more of 
it. There had been peace in the darkness, he was sure. Beside him, the ground 
falls sharply away, declining steeply without warning, and below there is only a 
small ledge before the torrent of the river. He can hear its angry flow, just as 
he could that last time he was here. When he had given her the choice she 
expected. When he had saved her.
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Again he sighs, graying the grass beneath him. Within a day it will wither. And 
then no grass will grow in that patch again. He can feel the grown people in the 
woods, stumbling backward and forward trying to find their way out, but his 
storm would keep them in. He would keep them in until she was done with them.
Inside, in the vast empty spaces where universes could exist, he feels an ache. 
She disturbs him. She disturbs everything. Slowly over the years she had suckled 
at his power until now, when he was no longer sure who commanded whom. She had 
wanted revenge and he had allowed it, not understanding the complicated, 
exhausting network of human emotions, so far away from his own existence, but 
hoping the satisfaction would dull her angry fire and let there be some peace 
again.
He can feel the children tingling on his skin, far away but with him. He can 
feel their discomfort and their joy and their unhappiness and wonders how that 
came to be. It used to be that he could barely feel them at all after he saved 
them. He would just carry them with him, inside. But then her voice, the first 
voice he could remember for such a very long time, had burst through. And then 
she'd become stronger. And then she'd wanted to play with the other children and 
it didn't seem so much to allow, not for her, not at first.
But now she is bringing children into the in between and he can feel her pulling 
away from him. If he was capable of fear, he would be feeling it. The in between 
is his domain. It always has been. It always would be. The Catcher Man and the 
in between. As one.
Staring down at his heavy boots he listens to the river as it endlessly passes 
by. Perhaps it was a mistake to 
171 
allow her to return. To interfere with things. Perhaps he should have kept the 
storm moving, seeking out the screams of the lost and the hurt and the nearly 
gone. He should have realized that to pause here would release too much power, 
power that a creature like Melanie would absorb and use. Maybe she had known it 
all along.
This was where they'd worshipped him all those years ago, begged him to bring 
children into the world with them, to make them catch. He remembered warmth 
then. Warm air and warm naked women on the forest floor. Then slowly they called 
for him less. And then as the years eroded everything but his name, they changed 
him. They put him in the storm and made him take children from the world. The 
change means nothing to him. But he knows he is tired. So very tired of 
existing. Of carrying the children and their pain.
He wonders if he will change again if they linger here much longer. He wonders 
how much Melanie has changed from lingering here. For a moment that could be a 
minute or a century he considers gathering them in and moving the storm on, 
leaving her business unfinished. But he is tired. And the stillness by the 
ravine is peaceful. Almost like the dark. And in that unsettled space inside 
him, he wonders if he still has the power to gather her in.
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172
173 
Chapter Twenty-one
Despite her protestations Crouch had poured her a brandy, and sipping it, Alex 
looked around the small pub at the many familiar faces. The landlord had opened 
up the double doors into the restaurant, and from her stool at the far side of 
the bar she could see to the back of it, where a couple of the older kids were 
dozing, their heads lolling against each other. Children had that wonderful way 
of dealing with shock. Sleep it off. She let the golden liquid slide down her 
throat. That would be nice. To be able to sleep it all off.
As soon as she had finished her potted history of what had happened to the vicar 
and Kay, Ada Rose had scurried into the kitchen to make sandwiches, and Alex 
smiled through her tiredness. Yes, they all had different ways of reacting. Some 
were just sitting quietly, holding hands; others had convened at the bar talking 
loudly and some even laughed. Shock was a funny thing. Emma Granville had taken 
all the younger children upstairs and was settling them in to sleep with
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the help of Dr. Jones, and Alex had been glad to see him go, if only for a 
while. She didn't like the way he'd looked at her. He could hear her clock 
ticking too. Well, he could spend his time worrying about calming Emma down for 
the next hour or two at least. Her need was more urgent than Alex's.
There was a hum of conversation around her that she was too tired to focus on, 
and she knew people needed a few minutes to let the chill of reality sink in 
before they started with questions. She hadn't mentioned Melanie Parr yet. Would 
she find out what that little girl had to do with all this?
Glancing around, she noticed the pinched faces as some of the villagers gazed 
out of the windows. A lot of the locals were spread out there in their isolated 
farm homes. Their families who were safe in the pub were right to be worried. 
She was frightened for all of them, those inside and out.
The door from the kitchen swung open and Ada came through carrying two catering 
trays of sandwiches, which she deposited on the low table in front of the fire, 
and Alex called Crouch over again.
"Ring the bell, will you."
When there was silence, she looked at Crouch, but he nodded her on and he was 
right to do it. She was more likely to get information out of the people than he 
was.
"I know it's a shock to you that Kay and Reverend Barker are dead. God knows, 
it's a horrible thing that's happened to them, but our main focus until the 
police can get here has got to be trying to find Laura Chambers and little Peter 
Granville. Those of you, who like me have lived here all your lives, try and 
remember
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anywhere that might be a good place for someone to hide out. Any old barns or 
anything. They've obviously gone somewhere, and hopefully, since Laura was at 
the Granville's this morning, they're together. If the police get here soon, 
then we want to be able to give them as much help as possible when searching." 
Her voice sounded confident and she almost believed in it herself.
A murmur of agreement spread around the room, and Alex saw a couple of people 
taking sandwiches. It was a good sign. The shock was wearing off and was being 
helped by the promise of activity. The world always felt better with a plan of 
action.
A hand tentatively went up--it was Alice Moore, from the post office. She was 
sitting in the low chair next to Mary's by the open fire, and she looked more 
fragile than she had when Alex and Simon had tried to use her phone that 
morning. But then, they were all changed from those few hours ago. "What is it, 
Alice?"
The older woman nervously chewed her bottom lip. "I know this probably isn't 
important to you right now, but I can't stop thinking about it." She fiddled 
with the necklace that Alex was sure was a crucifix. "But what have you done 
with the ... the bodies?"
A hush fell. Alex's voice was firm. There was no easy way to put it. "We've left 
them where they are. We moved the vicar into the church and covered him, but Kay 
is still where we found her."
"But that's awful!" Alice glanced around her and her throat was working as she 
spoke, as if chewing on her distress. "Shouldn't we take them somewhere? 
Especially Kay... we should do something for Kay. We can't leave her. Not like 
that."
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Voices were rising around her and Alex called for quiet, but the indignant 
conversation didn't stop until Crouch reached across the bar and rang the bell 
again, this time loud and angry.
"We've got to leave them where they are. The police will want to examine the 
crime scenes exactly as we found them. We've probably destroyed some evidence as 
it is." Alice's eyes were wide and welling up, and Alex's tone softened 
slightly. "Remember what the reverend would have told you. They're gone. It's 
just their earthly remains that are left. No more harm can come to them now. Now 
we have to worry about the living."
There was a moment of silence and Alex felt some of the tension slip out of the 
room. Maybe country people were more pragmatic about death, or maybe nobody 
really wanted to go into the Chambers's house and cut Kay down. That was 
probably closer to the truth.
"But who would want to do that to anyone? And why here?" Alice Moore called out, 
and was immediately seconded by others.
Not having the energy to shout over them, Alex waited until the voices had 
lowered to a hum. God, she was tired, and the pain inside her was starting to 
burn upward from her pelvis. She needed painkillers, but she was damned if she 
was going to ask Dr. Jones. She'd get this out of the way and then see if Crouch 
had any behind the bar.
Taking a deep breath, she let the words out. "This isn't just bad luck. And I 
don't think that Kay and Reverend Barker were just random victims. Horrible as 
it sounds, whoever's doing this is doing this to us on purpose. They were chosen 
for a reason. Now, maybe Kay
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didn't know what that reason was, but I think the vicar did. He said some things 
before he died. Some things that we have to make sense of." She paused. "And 
some of this stuff may not make sense. Not in the traditional sense."
"He was still alive when you found him?"
Crouch's voice carved into her from behind. "God, how awful."
"There was also a message left in the window at Kay's house."
"She's come back. I always knew she would. She's come back." Rocking backward 
and forward, perched awkwardly on the old two-seater in front of the fire, Mary 
muttered aloud and only stopped when Alice wrapped her arm around her, her grip 
perhaps a little too firm. Still, although she fell silent, Mary's lips 
continued to move, mumbling silent words.
"What's she talking about?" Dave Carter, a retired pilot who'd only recently 
moved into the village, seemed to speak for all, as once again the sea of skin, 
worn and smooth, looked at Alex expectantly.
"I don't know. But I think this might all have something to do with a little 
girl that went missing years ago. It sounds crazy, but nothing else seems to 
make much sense. Mary thought she saw her in the garden yesterday. And the vicar 
said her name when he was dying. Melanie Parr. And he said we had to warn the 
others. That she'd come for us. Mary said that the Catcher Man had brought her 
back." She paused. "Neither of those names meant anything to me until Paul told 
me Melanie had gone missing in a storm years ago."
As she spoke her eyes wandered around the room looking for signs of recognition 
or reactions of any
178 
kind. Some looked puzzled, especially those younger than her; some just looked 
tired and frightened and wanting answers; but on the faces of those older than 
herself, some not that much older, a guarded look had crept in. Some of those 
faces surprised her. Ada and Daniel Rose had exchanged glances before their eyes 
slid to the floor. Alice Moore's hands fluttered to her throat and Mary's 
rocking increased. Yes, something was being hidden.
"What did the message say? The one you found at Kay's place?" Even Crouch's 
ruddy complexion seemed harder, more defensive.
"Paul found it. It was written in steam on the window, but god knows how it got 
there. He said that it said, Come inside Paul. Let's play fishing with Kay. It 
was gone when I arrived." Crouch looked disbelieving, but Alex pressed on. "I 
know it sounds weird, but Paul wouldn't make something like that up. And there 
are other things that are wrong. There are children in the town. Children that 
shouldn't be here. We've all seen them. Haven't we?" She glared around, knowing 
she was in danger of making a fool of herself, but tired of pretending that 
everything was okay. "I know James Partridge has, because he told me." She 
stared at his wife, who ducked her head. "And I think if we all started being 
honest, we'd discover that strange children aren't the weirdest things that have 
been going on."
Again, a series of furtive glances scurried backward and forward across the bar. 
Yes, she'd made her point.
Mary turned around, clutching the back of the sofa, hands like desperate claws 
in the fabric. "It's all real. She's real. The Catcher Man brought her back. He 
knows. She knows."
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Ada stormed over to her, and Alice twisted in her seat as Daniel's wife shook 
the hysterical woman by the shoulders. "Stop it, Mary! She's gone! She was gone 
a long time ago. Stop it now! It's done. It's all done."
Alex stood up from her stool. What was winding these women up? What was making 
Ada so angry?
"What does she mean, 'The Catcher Man knows'? Knows what?"
"She doesn't mean anything. She doesn't know what she's saying. The Catcher Man 
doesn't exist. He never has. He was made up by someone generations ago. He was 
just a stupid, stupid story told to scare children. That's all." Ada looked 
around her as she spoke, seeking support from those around her. She found it in 
the nods of those whose expressions Alex didn't trust. She'd lived alongside 
these people all her life, and now she wasn't sure she knew them at all.
Looking at Ada's defiant expression, she let out a humorless laugh. "Well, 
something's real now, and it's scaring the shit out of me, I don't know about 
the rest of you." Alex's words echoed around the room, challenging the women 
from a different generation, and she stared at her aunt, whose gaze slipped away 
to the fire, guilty and burdened.
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180
181 
Chapter Twenty-two
There was a long silence after Alex spoke, and from deep within her, Mary felt 
an ache for her niece. Alex was looking at them all like they were strangers, 
and she could understand the young woman's hurt. But they weren't strangers. 
They just carried secrets, that was all, and didn't everybody? Theirs were just 
darker and maybe better hidden than most. Hidden to protect those they loved.
The warmth from the fire barely penetrated her skin and Mary wondered if she'd 
feel this cold, this detached from the world for the rest of her life. Sighing 
heavily, she decided she didn't really much care either way. Melanie would be 
waiting for her out in the storm, of that she was sure, and if it was up to that 
little girl, that little monster, then they'd be meeting again soon enough. And 
then it would be Ada's turn. She looked around her at the bar, where it seemed 
that everything was standing still and waiting for her to decide what to do. If 
she was gone, and Ada, then who would be left
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that would be strong enough to tell? To finally let their awful secret out and 
put an end to this terrible tale?
Ada had released her grip on the back of Mary's chair, but was still standing 
behind her, awkward and out of place. Mary wondered if Ada was having the same 
dark thoughts she was. And Alice. Poor Alice.
Her limbs aching and heavy, Mary turned and stared at the two old women, shaking 
her head. "You just don't understand, do you? She's come back. And she's taking 
her revenge on us." Her shoulders slumped slightly, as if the small outburst had 
drained all her energy. "And maybe we deserve it. The secrets may as well come 
out now as when the police come. Maybe if we tell, then this might all stop." 
Her breath hitched slightly. "At the very least, it might all stop for us." She 
glanced at Alice. "Don't you think, dear?"
Alice was comforting herself by stroking Sailor, Crouch's cat, who, woken by the 
noise from his slumber by the fire, was winding himself through and around her 
legs. But Mary thought she saw a slight nod and wondered for a moment if Alice 
was the best of them all, keeping that inside, letting it worry away at her and 
yet never saying a word, despite that she could have done so with no shame to 
herself. She really hadn't been part of it.
"What do you mean?" Dave Carter moved away from the bar, lowering himself into 
the one empty chair near Mary. Alex came forward too, and it seemed to Mary as 
if she were about to start some old-fashioned story telling, which perhaps she 
was, taking them all with her as she drifted backward, back to another time 
linked so definitely with this here and now, and yet so distant, so already 
done, so cannot be undone.
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She smiled at Dave Carter for a moment, her face beautifully serene, before her 
vision floated somewhere in the space above the harsh outline of the energetic 
flames, where the promise of light was welcoming and soothing. There might not 
be that much time before Melanie came to visit her or the police arrived, but 
there was all the time in the world for her; enough time to say what needed to 
be said. She wondered how the story would taste when she regurgitated it. Her 
voice was smooth as she started the release, and she led them back into the 
past, melodically, like a children's storyteller, and then she was there, or 
should she say then, the sweet smell of damp air around her, skin itching with 
oppressive heat. Her muscles didn't ache anymore, the years lifting from her 
flesh and soul, her hair long free as her heart speeded up.
Resting her chin on her arms, Mary leaned on the back of the sofa and gazed out 
the cottage window, her legs tucked under her. It was just too hot, and the thin 
layer of sweat that seemed to constantly cover her itched at her scalp. 
Occasionally her eyes drifted over to where Alicia was playing the piano, and 
she idly wondered why her younger sister's hair didn't ever stick to her head or 
look greasy with this oppressive weather.
She normally found Alicia's music soothing, but something about this unpleasant 
heat was leaving her irritated. She stared at the gathering gray clouds above 
the house, now spreading across the village. It would be a couple of hours 
before David came home from the farm, so there was no point in thinking about 
cooking yet. Not that on a day like this any of them would be particularly 
hungry, and that was fine by her. The idea of
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standing for any length of time over that stove was enough to make her jaw 
twitch with annoyance.
No, she thought, running her hand through her sticky hair, salad and cold ham 
would do them all today, even Paul. Her eyes wandered across the familiar 
scenery outside, looking but not really seeing it as she thought about her son, 
and she didn't hear the sigh that escaped her, low and haunting.
What was the matter with him at the moment? He'd lost weight, and although even 
she would have to admit that he'd had a bit of puppy fat to lose, there was 
something radical, painful even, about the way the pounds had dropped off. He 
had shifty eyes too, these days. Only ten, and yet already she was getting the 
feeling that he had secrets from his mother. Not allowed in the bathroom, not 
allowed to see him getting dressed. So much of their relationship had been 
disallowed. Maybe that was just his age, but something wasn't right. It seemed 
like something was eating him from the inside out. And not just him, either. All 
his friends were different these days. They'd changed over the past year or so, 
since that Joe kid left. They'd all got so serious, so intense.
Grayness absorbed the sky, pressing down on the roof of the old cottage, as 
Mary's mind skipped over the issue of Paul's stutter. She didn't want to think 
about how bad that had got. She'd tentatively asked the doctor about it, her own 
face twitching as if by raising the question she had betrayed her child's sense 
of privacy, and that if he'd found out then he'd never forgive her. The doctor 
had smiled sympathetically at her and put it down to his age, all those hormones 
starting to fire up, and she'd accepted that, trying to push aside the argument 
that there was more to it, that ten was too young for all those hormones'
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Her gaze drifted back to Alicia, not wanting to look anymore at the aggressive 
weather that was gathering outside, and something about her ethereally beautiful 
sister added to her irritation, and she allowed it to run for a moment. 
Sometimes it seemed so unfair that Alicia, the late-in-life and unplanned 
youngest daughter of their dead parents, was beautiful and talented and 
unburdened with the realities of domestic life. Men constantly fell in love with 
Alicia's sweetness and that rare talent she had, but she almost floated over 
them, sometimes lingering for a moment, but never enough to form a relationship. 
God, she wouldn't be surprised if after all these years of marriage, even her 
own husband didn't occasionally think of Alicia when they were panting together 
in the dark. They were happy as happy goes, but Mary knew she'd never been the 
type that caught a man's eye in the same way as her sister did, and love him as 
she surely did, David was only a man.
Yes, sometimes she thought Alicia had it too easy. Alicia, who lived in her own 
little world, just her and her beloved music. She played in the concert hall in 
Taunton sometimes, and the breathtaking quality of her work there kept the 
steady stream of well-to-do children from the town coming out to the village for 
their private lessons. There were more than enough for her to pick and choose, 
and that kept the fees high. No one could deny that she was worth it. She was 
almost as talented a teacher as she was a musician.
The sweat at the back of her knees was making her too uncomfortable and standing 
up, Mary gave her sister a smile she didn't feel. Something was definitely wrong 
in the air today and it niggled at her insides, the cottage now claustrophobic, 
the music too loud in her head. The
186 
back of her legs ached from crouching in the vegetable garden that morning and 
she needed to stretch them.
"I think I'll go."
Alicia just nodded, smiling her sweet smile from beneath that soft ash-blond 
head. Raising her hand to give a small wave, Mary caught sight of her 
fingernails and the earth that still lingered underneath, despite the scrubbing 
she'd given them. For a moment it seemed they summed up all that was different 
between her and her beautiful sister--earth and air, real and unreal. With that 
thought, her irritation disappeared. Yes, she was real. She wouldn't trade her 
life and all its imperfections for Alicia's. Alicia made music. She, Mary, had 
made Paul, her beautiful baby boy, and nothing, no symphony or concerto, could 
ever rival that.
Alicia was lost once again in the keys, at one with the music, and picking up 
her cardigan and tying it around her waist, Mary snuck through to the hall and 
let herself quietly out the front door. The humidity hit her as soon as she 
stepped into the quiet village road, and as she walked downhill toward the pub 
and post office, the midges from the river formed an increasingly busy halo 
around her head. Walking faster, the sweat building on her scalp, her skin 
itching with the imagined attention of the flies, she didn't see the figure that 
was running toward her, panting, eyes wide. The woman had called her name 
several times before Mary stopped cursing under her breath and looked up. It was 
Charlotte Keeler.
"Mary! Mary! I've been looking for you everywhere." Her face was wild, shaking 
with emotion, and Mary held her arm.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"You have to come to the house. Something's 
187 
happened to Ka y!" Her voice was choking. "She has burns. Burns!"
"What?" The air seemed like glue around her now, impeding her understanding.
"And there's more." Charlottes eyes almost shimmered. "For you, too" She froze, 
staring at Mary for a moment, before turning her head. "Come on. Everyone's 
waiting at mine. You need to hear... you need to ..."
Before Mary could ask a question, Charlotte's ample figure was disappearing 
ahead of her, running back down the steep cobbled road to her own house. As Mary 
moved to catch up, her head was filled with her boy, her Paul, his stutter, his 
weight loss and the dead look in his eyes whenever she dared to ask him what was 
wrong.
The Keelers old stone house should have been pleasantly cool even on the hottest 
England summer's day, but as in Alicia's cottage, it seemed that this strange 
brewing storm had pervaded the thick centuries-old barriers of protection, 
filling the rooms with its unnatural damp heat. It didn't stop the chill shiver 
that prickled across Mary's back as she looked down at the small burns and 
bruises on Kay's arms. Her mind still spun with the story that Kay had told the 
vicar, that he had told Charlotte, and who had now told her and the other 
mothers that had arrived during the past few minutes.
How could it be true? How could any of it be true? How could she believe that 
Paul would be so afraid and not tell her? She glanced behind her as she heard 
Ada Rose gasp, and then turned her attention back to Kay. The burns on the 
child's limbs were crudely formed and they glared angrily at her, crushing her 
disbelief with their glowing presence.
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It had started with the cat, Kay had told the vicar, Joe Barnes's cat. That's 
when it had all really turned nasty with Melanie. Mary's brow furrowed. Could a 
child really have done that to an animal? And why, for God's sake?
Her stomach sickening, Mary turned away and sat on the arm of the sofa.
Ada joined her, speaking in a low whisper. "Thank God she's had the good sense 
to tell. Thank God--"
Mary cut her off. "She didn't tell out of common sense. She had to. Have you 
seen that burn on her right arm ? It's infected. She probably kept it secret for 
as long as she could, but look at her. I wouldn't be surprised if she was 
running a bit of a fever."
For a moment the two women said nothing, huddled together in what was becoming a 
crowded living room. Charlotte had stopped crying and was applying some ointment 
to her daughter's arm, Enid Tucker helping her. The vicar sat back, awkwardly 
sipping tea, uncomfortable amongst the increasingly tense women. He was still a 
relatively young man, not much older than Mary herself, not yet of an age to be 
sexless, benign.
Ada chewed her bottom lip. "She said Melanie Parr did it, made them do it or 
whatever!" Her eyes were hollow. "Do you think ... do you think that James or 
Paul... ?" The question hung unfinished.
Mary stared away from her friend. "Do you mean will our children have bruises 
and burns under their clothes?" The whisper was all she could manage. "Yes. Yes, 
I do." All of Paul's strange furtive behavior, the increased stutter, the dark 
rings under his wide eyes, it was all making sense. It all fitted together with 
the madness that Kay had spilled out to the vicar, the madness that he had 
brought to share with her mother, the 
189 
madness that had been these children's world for all those months. She looked 
again at the child sniffing in the chair in the far corner. She still looked so 
afraid, and that made Mary's anger rise.
Didn't Kay think they could sort it out? That these grownups could sort it out? 
And if Kay was afraid, then how did James and her Paul feel? Kay was over a year 
older than them. They were all older than Melanie Parr, for Christ's sake.
Mary leaned forward. "Where's Melanie now, Kay dear?" Her voice was low, but 
strong, and she waited for Kay to wipe her eyes, hiding her impatience for the 
answer.
"She's up at the ravine. On her own up there." She couldn't meet Mary's eyes, 
anybody's eyes, but stared at the carpet, her voice expressionless.
"The others have gone back down to the river to play. Melanie likes to be on her 
own sometimes. Says she has things to do that we wouldn't understand. Says her 
mother don't mind her being on her own. Thinks it's safe next to the city. She 
says she's not a scaredycat like we are. She don't believe in any Catcher Man." 
Kay nervously glanced at her mother.
Raising one hand, she covered her mouth, her fingers twisting the upper lip 
almost subconsciously. Mary's heart sent a pang of emotional pain to her cramped 
stomach and it reverberated back as she looked at the nails on those young 
hands, bitten down until the edges were raw, strips of skin torn from each side. 
Just like Paul's. How was it that they all let it pass? How was it that they 
didn't say something? To each other at least, if not to their precious children 
directly.
Looking at Ada, Mary saw her own guilt in the
190 
woman's face. And Charlotte's as she nodded in their direction, signaling them 
into the adjacent dining room. Reverend Barker took the seat next to Kay and 
started talking softly to her. Leaving them behind, Mary noticed the flash of 
anger the girl gave him and she understood why. He had broken her confidence by 
telling her mother what she had shared with him, and she hated him for it. And 
behind that hate was fear. Gritting her teeth, she followed her friends into the 
room next door.
When Mary closed the heavy wood behind her, there was a moments pause and then 
the women let their anger hiss itself out in a whirlwind of whispers.
"I can't believe this! I can't believe it."
"It's not normal. How do you punish someone for that? How? God, I'd like to 
wring her little neck."
"Where did Kay say she was? In the woods?"
"Up by the ravine. On her own."
A flash of eyes passed around the occupants of the room.
"Do you think we should go up there? To the clearing?"
"I told Paul not to go up there--the banks are too steep and it's too far from 
the village."
"Stop it Mary, it doesn't matter. We went up there as children for God's sake, 
why did you think our kids would be any different?"
"So what should we do?"
Perhaps in another time or another place someone would have suggested they 
should go and talk to Melanie's mother, but it didn't enter their heads. Mrs. 
Parr wasn't one of them--she had city blood in her veins and now that blood was 
spoiling their country like a disease, making their peaceful haven unsafe.
"I know what I'd like to do. I'd like to go up there and
191 
put the fear of God into her. I want to make her cry. I want to make her feel as 
bad as my baby."
"Then why don't we? Why don't we go up there?"
Silence.
"What? What do you mean?"
"Let's do it. Lets go up there and teach her a lesson she won't forget. We never 
expect them home before tea-time. Maybe she won't head back to the village for a 
while. We could get up there if we go now."
"But what will we do ? We can't hurt her. We can't..."
"Calm down. I don't mean hurt her. But scare her."
"Her mother'll go mad when she tells her. Wouldn't you ? We won't get away with 
it."
"I don't think Melanie will tell. What's she going to say?"
A pause.
"And even if she does tell, we'll deny it."
"I just keep seeing those burns and bruises."
"She has scars too. Didn't you see?"
"And it won't only be Kay."
"We owe it to them to go. We owe it to our children to sort it out"
The air was filled with breathing, harsh and hot. No words were spoken as the 
agreement was made, and it was Charlotte that reached the door first. Mary stood 
behind her as she called into the doorway of the lounge, her voice tight.
"We're going out. Can you stay here with Kay?"
The vicar was out of sight, but his muffled reply was still audible. "Where are 
you going?"
Charlotte's fingers gripped tighter on the wood of the door. "To the ravine."
There was no reply from the vicar, and Mary wasn't surprised. What was it he'd 
said about Melanie when he'd
192 
finished telling Kay's story? 'The child is an abomination.' No, he wouldn't 
argue with what they were doing. He may have taken to the cloth, but he was a 
country boy at heart. He understood about taking care of your own.
Striding grimly back up the hill, it seemed to Mary that the grayness had sunk 
from the sky, sticking to her, the feeling unpleasant and unnatural like static 
prickling her head. It was only half an hour since she'd left Alicia's cottage, 
but it seemed so much longer, and as she passed it again, the troop of women 
heading for the steep woods that started not far from the back of the small row 
of buildings, the soft strains of music escaped and wafted around her, breaking 
the spell in the air, allowing the first drops of heavy rain to fall.
Despite the increasing weight of the falling water, the ground was still solid 
enough for the women to climb the steep slope without sliding backward at each 
step. Mary felt her breath roaring inside her, her lungs burning like they were 
cracking with flame as they stretched with the unexpected exertion she was 
placing on them, but her legs were strong and she kept up the pace easily. You 
didn 'tgrow up around farms without being a little bit hardy. Even delicate 
Alicia had strength in those slim limbs of hers. Maybe it was something in the 
air.
Above them thunder growled to life, and despite the anger and hate that filled 
her, Mary hoped that wherever Paul was, he'd head home now. In the woods the sky 
seemed almost black, the early afternoon becoming twilight around them. This was 
shaping up to be a bad storm, malevolent and vicious.
The four of them had spread out as they climbed, and it was Charlotte, looking 
absurdly out of place in her housedress and flat sandals, the clothes sticking 
to her form 
193 
underneath in the onslaught of the rain, who stopped first. She smiled, pushing 
the lank wet curls out of her face.
"Hello Melanie, we've come to see you." Her voice dripped with honey and acid, 
enough to send a shiver down Mary's spine as she looked up to the top of the 
bank, only a few feet away.
The small blonde child must have decided that being in the woods in the middle 
of a thunderstorm wasn't the best idea and had started her journey home. Not so 
keen to be in danger herself, then. Sitting where the ground became level, she 
had been putting on her shoes and socks. One shoe on, she stood up and looked 
down at the women. Mary watched the change of expression on that perfectly 
beautiful face--at first a sweet smile, then twisting into puzzled concern. 
Maybe she could smell their anger; maybe even at ten she knew there was 
something wrong about four grown women coming out in a storm without even a 
coat, out to the children's territories, to places they had probably forgotten 
about twenty years ago. Still though, she didn't move. Not yet. Her confusion 
was still waiting to turn to fear.
Mary felt animal blood rushing through her veins, exciting her, making her heart 
throb in her chest. Looking at the flush faces of her friends, their shining 
eyes and parted lips, she knew they could feel it too. They were a pack. A pack 
of wild animals protecting their young. At first she felt like a lioness, 
growling and proud. She followed Charlotte's lead and picked up a fallen branch, 
watching Melanie take her first hesitant step back into the clearing, dropping 
her forgotten shoe, which tumbled past them down the slope, the women starting 
to circle the small pretty girl, who was rapidly losing her smug expression.
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Mary wondered if they were more like hyenas, bitter and cruel, snapping and 
snarling at their weaker prey.
She pushed the thought down as she smiled at the child backing away from her. 
Well, so what if they were? They weren't going to do any real harm. Just scare 
her a little. Well, maybe scare her a lot. And she deserved it.
She raised the stick and swatted at the girl's legs, forcing her to jump 
backward to avoid being stung by the branch.
"What's the matter Melanie? Don't you want to play? We thought you liked a bit 
of danger!" She lifted the thin branch again, and across the clearing, Ada Rose 
cawed, high and victorious.
"Jesus Christ. What happened?"
Dave Carter's voice broke into Mary's train of thought, bringing her roughly 
back to the present. As an ache ran up her arm, she realized how tightly she'd 
been gripping the arm of the chair. Telling it all, however, wasn't as bad as 
she'd thought it might be. Relaxing her fingers, she felt her age settling back 
into her bones, no animal blood rushing through her veins any longer.
She wished the fire would warm her more, down in the core where she needed it. 
Still, no matter. Not much longer now. Looking down, the gnarled sinews on the 
back of her hands and arms reminded her of the woods. The damp smell still 
lingered in her nostrils after all these years, especially tonight, brought back 
to vivid life.
She sighed. "What happened? It's so difficult to tell. We became like men. You 
know, how they behave in a gang, at a football match, in a crowd, where terrible
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things happen. We became a collective mind almost. No individual thought. Not in 
those few minutes, at least. Not when it got out of hand." She paused, brow 
furrowed, trying to think. "Not that there was really time for things to get out 
of hand. It all happened so fast. I think these things tend to." Smiling, she 
looked at the frozen faces around her. "Cliche, but true."
Her mouth felt dry and she needed something to help mellow her soul and give her 
the strength and courage she wasn't sure she had.
"Get me a gin and tonic, will you please, Crouch? Make it a double." Rising 
quickly, the man didn't argue with her and she waited silently till he brought 
the tall cool glass back, pouring only a small amount of the tonic in and taking 
a long slow sip, wanting the spirit to burn her throat. To purify her voice.
Carter leaned forward in his chair, repeating his question.
"So? What happened?" His voice was eager, and Mary wondered for a second if she 
could hear the edge of the hyena in it. Not that there was any real surprise 
there. Nothing about people had surprised her for a long time. Except perhaps 
their gritty need for survival. Well, she was getting over that one.
"We panicked her, that's what happened. I don't know who caught her legs with 
their stick first; whoever it was I'm sure didn't mean to, but once it was done, 
once she'd yelped with that first sting of pain, well... it was like a veil came 
down. Did I hit her? Probably. Almost certainly, but I just don't know. I'm not 
lying when I say I don't remember. I remember most of that day clear as a bell, 
couldn't forget it if I tried, each
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image is etched into my head, burned there, filling my dreams, but not those few 
minutes. They're gone."
From the corner of her eye, she could see that Alice was looking up, drawn into 
the story too, the part that she hadn't known, the hour or so before she became 
involved, only once before heard, many, many years ago. She looked better than 
she had in a long while. Maybe the telling was doing her good too, poor soul.
"We weren't hitting her hard. Just those kind of stinging shots, the sort 
children do to each other, almost like tea towel slaps, but we were scaring her. 
Because grownups didn't do that kind of thing. They weren't supposed to. And I 
think she could see our knowledge, that we knew about her, and that scared her. 
Maybe out there by the ravine, she thought we were as capable of evil as she 
was.
"We had closed right in on her, laughing and whooping, soaking wet and loving it 
in a strange way. We must have looked like some kind of crazy witches out there 
in that clearing. We must have looked like that to Melanie anyway, because she 
stepped further and further back, desperate to keep out of our reach, terrified 
of what we were going to do to her. She kept shuffling backwards until she was 
right by the drop away into the river."
Mary paused, her eyes almost shut, remembering the expression of surprise on 
that forever-ten face as the wet ground behind Melanie crumbled and she tumbled 
backward, her arms flailing forward trying to hold onto the air. Mary's wrinkled 
face flinched as she remembered how none of them had reached to grab her, their 
own shock freezing them, the rain that attacked them and their anger all 
forgotten, their 
197 
vision filled with those pinwheeling arms and small, stretched fingers.
She let the words out that were eating her inside.
"And then she fell. She was gone, screaming backwards over the ravine."
198 
198
199 
Chapter Twenty-three
"Oh Mary, oh sweet Mary mother of God ..." The words were like punches coming 
out of Enid Tucker and Mary, the Mary that was never going to heaven, not 
anymore, the Mary that was here full of flesh and blood and fear, wished her 
friend would just shut up, just please shut up.
Leaning carefully over the edge of the drop-off, Charlotte beside her, Mary 
could see Melanie's twisted body on a small ledge a few feet above the torrent 
of the rising river. The girl's eyes were wide and terrified, her lower body 
bent out of shape.
"Melanie? Melanie? Can you hear me?" There was no animal in Charlotte's voice 
anymore; she was all human, all pathetically human and full of realization. The 
small voice drifted up to them, jagged and wet.
"I can't move my legs! I can't move my legs!"
Turning round, Mary saw Ada Rose desperately searching the ground around them 
for something long enough to reach the ledge, which was a good ten feet
200 
below them, and wanted to scream at her that it was useless. Ada knew as well as 
she did that there were no twigs or branches at their feet that were going to be 
able to go that far.
The air above her flashed bright before thunder raged again, the downpour that 
surrounded them stinging at their skin, sucking the warmth out of them. She 
shivered.
"It's no good, we'll have to go back for help. We need a rope." She had to raise 
her voice to make it carry over the sounds of nature that screeched in her ears 
and pulled at her hair.
"Melanie? Melanie?" Charlotte screamed down to where the girl lay, the water of 
the river steadily rising. Coughing and spluttering came back at them, the 
little girl crying.
"I can't move my legs! I can't feel them!"
"We're going to get a rope. You've got to hold on! We'll be as fast as we can. 
Just please hold on!"
Listening to the panic in her friend's voice, Mary squeezed her eyes shut for a 
moment, wanting to keep them that way, to block this nightmare out forever. To 
make it so it never happened. Her heart thumped too hard, and behind her lids 
she pushed away the tears that came with the truth that she couldn't ignore. It 
would take too long to go back to the village. It would take too long. The 
freezing river was rising too fast. It would overwhelm her. Drown her. To go 
back to the village would take too long for Melanie.
She felt a hand on her arm and reluctantly opened her eyes. Enid was tugging at 
her. "Come on, Mary. Let's go. We need to hurry"
Fora moment the pointlessness of what they were 
201 
doing was on the tip of her tongue, but then she bit it back. She just wanted to 
get away, to get away from there.
None of them volunteered to stay, to wait with Melanie, and her small cries of 
"Don't leave me alone! Don't leave me!" were the last Mary heard from her, 
carried carefully on the wind, the words mercilessly clear.
If only as she ran down the bank, her feet twisting and turning as she stumbled 
from going too fast in the rain, the life bursting inside her, if only she'd 
known then how long she'd be hearing their echo.
Charlotte had fetched dry towels for each of them while checking that Kay was 
sleeping upstairs, but Mary's sat on the chair beside her untouched. It didn't 
seem right to take that comfort, to have that warmth. The silence in the 
confines of the small lounge was putting her teeth on edge. How much longer? How 
much longer?
The women had all been exhausted when they'd staggered back to the village, so 
it was Reverend Barker who'd left ashen-faced with the rope, running through the 
storm back to the ravine. One more guest at the party.
Alice Moore had been emptying the small post box at the far end of the village, 
the one the farmers used when they didn't want to come down to the post office. 
The small sack of letters she clutched almost fell from her hands when she saw 
them, shocked at their bedraggled, haunted appearances.
Letting the others go past, Mary had asked her to gather up their children and 
get them to help sort the post or something. Anything to keep them occupied. 
Just for an hour or so. Alice had wanted to know why, and her whole body 
shaking, the words surreal, Mary told her, needing to tell someone. Nodding and 
quivering, agreeing to do as she was asked, Alice aged thirty
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years in that five minutes of intense listening, and watching it happen broke 
something inside Mary. Alice Moore would never have children of her own. She 
wouldn't even think of it, not after that day.
Breathing almost against her will, Mary let her head rest in her hands, not 
wanting to look at the faces of her friends, and they not wanting to look at her 
or each other they listened to the tick of the clock in the hallway and waited.
Eventually the door creaked open and the vicar was back, soaking and muddy, the 
rope dangling impotently from his hands. Forty-five minutes had passed since 
they left the clearing. Shaking his head, he sank into the old hard-backed chair 
in the corner. His voice was dull, empty. "She's gone. She was gone when I got 
there. I called and called, but there was nothing. I dropped the rope over the 
side until it hit the water and shouted and shouted. But there was nothing."
The silence that followed threatened to eat Mary up. Her head buzzed as the 
truth sank in. Melanie was dead. She'd known it. She'd thought she'd known it, 
but this, this final confirmation was almost too much to bear. What had they 
done? Oh Christ, what had they done?
"I think I may be sick." Ada rocked slowly back and forth.
"What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?" Enid Tucker chewed 
the skin at the edge of her fingers, something that took Mary back to when they 
had been children themselves, the tears prickling behind her eyes.
Charlotte stood up and crossed to the window, staring at the rain that pummeled 
the old square panes of glass, accusing them with what it knew.
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"Go home and have a bath. Give your children some tea. We'll meet again when our 
husbands are home."
"Where?"
"I don't know." She shrugged and it seemed to Mary that the effort took all of 
her energy. Before she could stop herself, the words were out.
"I'll speak to Alicia. I'm sure we can go to her cottage. We don't want to be 
where the children can hear us."
The silence confirmed the plan, and Mary pulled herself to her reluctant feet, 
wondering how she was going to be normal, wondering how she was going to make 
Paul's tea, and smile and listen while looking for burns and bruises and hearing 
the echo of that little girl's panicked screams ringing constantly in her head, 
monster or not. Suddenly the reality of the future pierced her insides. As the 
women filed out into the rain, they knew the world had changed. Nothing would 
ever be the same again.
Mary took the last swallow of gin, enjoying the slight hum it had created inside 
her. Maybe she'd take another upstairs. Yes, maybe she would. But first she had 
to finish her tale. And finish it she would.
"We argued long into the night, once we shared what we'd done. The men couldn't 
believe it. Sometimes I think they never really did. It was easier not to, and 
men aren't good at dealing with such things. They didn't want to see the cruelty 
that we were capable of. Surprising really, because women are so much harder 
underneath our soft skin." She smiled wistfully.
"We were hard that night. Our guilt had turned to self-preservation in the hours 
we allowed ourselves, those hours in which the cold truth sank in. She'd hurt
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our children. She'd forced us into it, and after all, it was an accident, so why 
should we have to suffer more? She was an evil child. If she could do that to 
Joe Barnes's cat at her age, then what would she grow up into?"
She raised a wry eyebrow. "Anyway, of all of us law-abiding adults, it was only 
Alicia who insisted that we should go to the police. We should explain 
ourselves. We would live to regret it if we didn't. She stuck to her guns for 
hours, wouldn't budge, not until I cried and cried, begged her to just keep 
quiet, asked her where was the harm in that? I beat her down with sisterly 
love."
Throat tightening, Mary forced herself to continue. "She changed after that. She 
still played the piano, gave lessons, but the fire in her music was gone. She 
didn't play for pleasure anymore. I don't think she found pleasure in it, or 
wouldn't allow herself to enjoy it. She ... how shall I put it, she sought 
solace with people she barely knew, with men she barely knew. At least one of 
those helped her produce the lovely Alex." Looking up, she sought out her niece, 
but Alex wouldn't meet her gaze. No matter. It was to be expected. "No one 
frowned on Alicia for that, for her single-motherhood. We carried her sins, you 
see. We caused them." She sighed.
"Alex revived her for a while, but not for long. Her guilt turned to disease and 
that took her from us."
Her cheeks were wet with silent tears. "We killed her just as surely as we 
killed Melanie. An accident, but our fault all the same."
She sat in silence for somewhere between a minute and an eternity, staring into 
the flames and slowly settling back into the present. She could hear Alice's
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breath hitching as she sobbed beside her, and Mary squeezed her knee. "It's all 
right, Alice. None of it was your fault."
"But the dead can't come back, Mary." Under the hardness of Ada's voice there 
was a slight tremble. "No matter what we did. Melanie Parr's gone. Dead and 
gone, and I'm glad!"
Mary wasn't the only one to hear the slight edge of hysteria in her old friend's 
voice. Alex finally raised her head, and it hurt Mary to see the sadness and 
shock on her face. The truth hurt, there was no denying it. And more often than 
not it was the innocent who felt the pain most. "Why don't you go home, Ada? 
Help Daniel get that radio of his working."
Alex turned to Crouch, and Mary noticed the man couldn't look her in the eye, as 
if he was somehow ashamed for her.
"I need a shower. Can I use one of the rooms?" He nodded before opening the 
cupboard and pulling out a key. She lowered her voice slightly. "And a couple of 
Paracetamol if you've got some. Make that four if you can. Save me asking for 
more later."
Taking the packet from him, Alex turned back to face the silent throng. "I don't 
care how crazy it makes me sound. This village did something terrible to that 
little girl and now she's come back. And we can either ignore that and carry on 
dying or try and think of a way to stop her. It's up to you." Mary felt her 
heart ache as her niece headed upstairs without even a backward glance.
After Ada had left and Alex had gone upstairs, the tension eased out of the room 
a little. For the younger 
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villagers that had known nothing of Melanie Parr or whose relatives had not been 
part of the events of thirty years ago, Mary's retelling had been awful but 
unreal. As if Melanie herself had never really existed except in this awful tale 
and the outcome of it couldn't touch them. Perhaps that was the way it always 
was with these things. Nobody ever truly believed the world existed before they 
were born. A world without yourself was never easy to picture, especially for 
the young. Slowly the quiet hum of conversation filled the bar, although no one 
seemed too keen to come close to Mary, everyone avoiding guilt by association.
Beside her, Alice was still crying and Mary sighed. It had been a cathartic 
experience for both of them, and despite her pain, Alice would survive. The 
story, their history, was shared, and she would realize that her guilt in it all 
was not so very great. People would forgive her, and then maybe she'd eventually 
be able to forgive herself.
Scanning the room, Mary sought out the dishevelled figure of Dr. Jones, and was 
pleased to see him sitting alone. She stared at him until eventually his eyes 
met hers, and she signaled him over. There were things she needed to know and 
there was no more time to wait. Dave Carter had moved away, and the doctor took 
his seat, awkward and embarrassed. Mary found she didn't care much either way 
about his disapproval. He wasn't country born and bred. He didn't know how tough 
country life made you. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the weakness of 
his chin and jowls, and knew that after all he'd just heard, he'd tell her what 
she wanted to know.
"Tell me about Alex." There. The words were out.
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The doctor looked into her calm eyes, and this time didn't offer platitudes. 
Maybe after what he'd just heard, he'd decided she could take it straight. And 
he was right. That's what she wanted.
"She's dying. Ovarian cancer. She's known for a while. She's got a few months. 
No more than six."
"Thank you."
Nodding, Mary rose, hoping that only the stiffness in her back gave away the 
sudden grief, stronger than any physical pain that ripped through her. Still, it 
would be gone soon. For all of them, life was only fleeting. A breath, a 
whisper, and then nothing.
Going behind the familiar bar, she poured herself a large brandy, slipping the 
small serrated knife that Crouch used for slicing lemons into her cardigan 
sleeve unnoticed. Yes. Everything was as it should be.
"I'm going to have a hot bath." The doctor dragged his eyes up to hers from his 
seat, and nodded.
She smiled gently at him, forgiving him, forgiving all of them. "Don't disturb 
me unless it's really necessary."
Feeling the comfort of the knife against her wrist, she headed upstairs.
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208
209 
Chapter Twenty-four
By the time Simon staggered onto the gravel of the Tucker's home, Paul a few 
steps behind, his legs were like jelly and they were both covered in mud and 
exhausted. The gloom of the day was becoming dusk and very soon it would be 
pitch-black. Staring at the light coming from the house ahead, he felt relief 
flood through him, and only then realized how tense he'd been. A house. 
Normalcy. That was what he needed. Surely once they were inside any thought of 
ghosts and memories of giggles and strange electricity would fade. That would be 
good, because when grown men started believing in ghosts it was time to doubt 
their own sanity.
"Let's hope Enid Tucker's got the kettle on. I'm gasping for a cup of tea." Paul 
sounded as tired as he looked and Simon could empathize. Ever since they'd 
arrived in Watterrow weird shit had taken over, and although the rain had slowed 
it had still been a hard slog trying to find the farm.
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"I'm hoping for a brandy, myself. Maybe in a coffee." Simon grinned at his 
friend, and Paul nodded.
"Yep, that does sound good." Paul's voice was distant and he looked up and 
around him as if something weren't quite right.
They were approaching the house from the side and the sound of their shoes 
crunching against the stones seemed too loud in the silence, almost hurting 
Simon's ears with the invasion of noise. They reached the front porch door and 
finding it ajar, Paul stepped backward, looking around the farmyard, puzzled.
"That's what's missing. The dogs."
"What dogs?"
"The Tucker's dogs. Tinker and Jess. They'd normally be out here saying hello."
Simon shrugged, looking out into the emptiness around them. "Well, it's been 
raining. Maybe they're inside."
Paul shook his head. "They're farm dogs. There's no way old man Tucker would 
bring them in. They're working dogs, not pets. They live outside and use that 
lean-to against the main house as their shelter."
"Well, I guess that's where they are then."
Paul didn't look convinced. "Maybe. But those two dogs are friendly. The rain 
wouldn't have stopped them from coming out to meet and greet."
Turning, he scanned the horizon. "That doesn't look good, either."
Simon could hear the tension creeping back into Paul's voice and he looked up at 
the fields behind the house, the side away from the woods. The sheep were still 
out there on the hills, the lambs seeking shelter at their mothers' sides.
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"What is it?"
"Surely in all the thunder and lightning of the past twenty-four hours Tucker 
would have brought them in. Even if young Tom was down in the village and not 
there to help, old Tucker would have brought them in himself. He is too proud 
not to. He wouldn't want anyone to be able to say that he couldn't look after 
his animals. Farmers never leave their animals out in weather like this. Never." 
Paul looked up at Simon, and then at the back door of the house. "I've got to 
tell you, I'm getting a bad feeling about this, mate."
Nervousness creeping into his soul, the ghost in the woods suddenly seeming much 
closer, Simon pushed the back door slightly. Paul stepped through first.
"Hello? Tom? Enid?"
Despite his trepidation, Simon had expected at least one of the elderly couple 
to answer Paul's shout, but there was no reply. Stepping across the threshold as 
quietly as they could, neither man spoke as they quietly made their way into the 
hallway. Simon could hear his heart beating. Maybe they just hadn't heard Paul, 
that was all. That was all, surely. Or maybe Tom and James had been there and 
the four of them were heading back down to the pub. If the other two had come 
across the same problems he and Paul had trying to get out of the woods, then 
that was a distinct possibility. He felt a twinge of relief. That had to be it. 
That would also explain why the dogs weren't there. They'd gone with their 
master.
A television blared some old black and white cowboy film at him from the room to 
the left, and Simon followed Paul as he headed toward it. If the Tucker's were 
all heading down to the pub, then why hadn't
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they turned the TV off first? It didn't seem right. He couldn't imagine his own 
mother leaving her house with the box still on. It wasn't something that 
generation would do.
Just inside the lounge doorway, Paul suddenly stopped.
"What? What is it?" Simon couldn't help but whisper as he came alongside Paul. 
Staring in front of him, he could just see what must have been old Tom Tucker's 
head over the top of the armchair, wisps of gray covering his mainly bald and 
shiny scalp. The old man seemed to be sitting very still. Too still. His heart 
froze. This wasn't right.
"Tom?" Paul's nerves jangled in his voice. "Tom? Are you okay?"
Both men came around to the side of the old green velour chair, Tom Tucker's 
face hidden from them as it hung down.
"Could he be sleeping?"
Paul stared at him as if he were mad, and down in the pit of his stomach Simon 
knew that wasn't true, but it wasn't until Paul tentatively shook the man that 
the reality screeched at them.
Old man Tucker's head rolled sideways in a mockery of looking at them, and 
swearing under his breath, Paul fell backward from his crouching position.
"Jesus." Simon couldn't think of anything else to say, but it was patently 
obvious that the Lord had had nothing to do with whatever had gone on.
Tucker's eyes bulged from their sockets with frozen fear and his tongue reached 
out, purple and distended, swollen to twice its normal size.
Swallowing the urge to run, squeezing the door shut
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on panic, Simon caught his breath before touching the man's hand. It was still 
ever-so-slightly warm.
"I don't think he's been dead too long."
Paul nodded, and Simon wasn't too sure whether he could see a slight relief in 
his friend's face. Relief that they hadn't got here a little earlier and had to 
face whoever, whatever, had done this.
Leaning forward, Simon studied Tom more closely. Around his bruised neck hung a 
tie, a striped one, maybe even a school tie, and someone had strangled him with 
it. He thought of the children in the village. And the children in the woods. 
Just what the fuck was really going on here?
Getting slowly to his feet, Paul shook himself slightly. "If Tom is here and 
dead, then where is Enid?" The two men stared at each other. For a second, Simon 
almost said something about her perhaps having left the farmhouse and going to 
the village, but he knew it would be crass. They both knew that if her husband 
was in the house and dead, then it was likely that she would be too.
"I guess we'd better go and look for her."
Leaving the sitting room behind, Simon smelled the damp around them, his senses 
fully alert and awake. The back door must have been open quite a while for the 
weather to have crept into the heart of the house. Or maybe Melanie brought the 
storm with her. Maybe she brought the storm and a friend with a school tie. He 
pushed the thought aside. He didn't have a clue what was happening, but he was 
damned if he was going to scare himself with thoughts like that. He didn't need 
it.
Steeling himself, knowing that Enid would have to be here or upstairs, he 
followed Paul and stepped onto
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the old tiles of the large kitchen. The side door was wide open and a pool of 
water had gathered in the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, absorbing what 
they saw.
A pan of potatoes sat drained on the side by the store, their fluffy edges 
declaring them cooked. Had Enid opened the door to let out the steam from 
cooking? Or maybe she'd opened it to run. And maybe she'd gotten away and was 
lost out in the woods somewhere, going around in circles just like they'd been a 
short while before. Simon could see it playing out in his head. Tucker's face 
going blue as he choked, one arm waving at Enid, urging to her to flee, to save 
herself.
Moving to the other side of the large oak table, his images of Enid Tucker's 
escape vanished. Enid hadn't run anywhere. Her large, homely frame, still 
dressed in her housecoat, lay face up on the hard floor. Around her head was a 
halo of blood that must have flooded from the deep and untidy gash in her 
throat. Her glassy eyes didn't have the expression of fear that her husband's 
death mask wore; she merely gazed at the ceiling in mild surprise. Feeling 
numbness creeping up his limbs, as if the cold were spreading from the tiles 
beneath, Simon stumbled backward, hands reaching behind him until he felt the 
cool edge of the sink in his grasp. Leaning against it, relieved that Enid's 
body was no longer in direct view, he shut his eyes in an attempt to dispel the 
dark spots that played at the edges of his sight. So much for being shock 
hardened. Not quite so brave as you think, are you? Not when the world has 
changed the rules and children come back from the dead and the forest stops you 
from leaving town.
215 
He sucked in a long, shaky breath and opened his eyes again.
"Let's hope your mate Tom made it out of the forest. He shouldn't have to see 
this."
Still staring down at Enid's body, Paul shook his head. "If we weren't allowed 
to leave, then Tom and James won't be, either."
Allowed to leave. Simon wished Paul would stop talking like that.
"But you're right," Paul continued. "Maybe we should go outside and wait for 
them. Tom shouldn't come in and find his parents like this." Turning his back on 
Enid, Paul rummaged through the old cupboards under the sink and after a few 
moments pulled out a large square flashlight. It wasn't the sort favored in the 
city, but much larger, it's square face six or seven inches across. It got a 
whole lot darker in the country. He flicked the button and the light blazed. 
Thank fuck for that."
Shutting the cupboard, Paul took half a step outside and froze. Even in the 
darkness that was rapidly falling Simon could see the color drain from his 
friends face. "Oh god."
"What?"
"Look. Look what's written here."
Simon came alongside him and stared at the open back door. Despite the rain and 
the way the blood had run, blending some of the words together, he could still 
read the scrawl. If he looked closely enough he could still see the imprint of 
the small finger that had written it.
Tom Tom, the farmer's son, can you finish what your mam began
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"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Paul shook his head. "I don't know."
"Doesn't the rhyme go 'Tom, Tom the piper's son?'"
"Yes. She's changed it. She liked rhymes and songs." Paul was staring at the 
words, his voice breathy. "She liked to add her own bits in. Change them. All 
kids do."
Simon didn't like the chill that gripped his insides. He didn't need to ask who 
the she was to whom Paul was referring. "I wish you would stop talking about her 
as if she were still alive. That little girl's dead. You know that as well as I 
do."
Paul smiled at Simon as if he pitied him. "Yes, I do. I know she's dead. But it 
seems that death doesn't have the limitations it used to. Not in Watterrow at 
any rate. Not today."
Simon shook his head. "I worry about you, Paul. Believing in ghosts. What you 
told me about how she was as a child is pretty rough, but to think she's come 
back from the dead is a little far-out, wouldn't you say?"
"So what's your answer, Simon? Have you got something practical to offer? People 
are dying, and these are no ordinary killings. There were the lights in the 
woods." His eyes flared slightly, the whites shining. "And don't try and tell me 
there was anything ordinary about those. Or the messages she keeps leaving." He 
sighed. "And all the bloody children."
Paul turned away, flicking the switch on the flashlight, sending a white beam 
out into the courtyard. Simon stepped up alongside him. The light put them both 
in shadow, their faces outlines against the dark, and Simon was pleased. He 
didn't want to see Paul's face and he didn't really want Paul to see his own 
troubled expression. The wind was calm, but the rain was
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still coming down heavily and Simon felt cold to the core. He hoped that Alex 
and the others had stayed inside the warmth of the pub. They should be 
relatively safe there from whatever was doing all this. Relatively. The word 
didn't give him much reassurance against the madness that surrounded them and 
suddenly he wanted to get back to The Rock.
He thought about James Partridge and Tom Tucker wandering out in the woods in 
the dark. If, crazy as it sounded, that strange electricity was running through 
the entire edge of the trees, then they wouldn't have been able to get to 
another village, either. So they were on their way to the Tucker's or headed 
back to the pub. He hoped it was the latter for the younger Tom Tucker's sake.
"How long do you think should we wait for them?"
"I guess we'll give it twenty minutes or so. They both know the woods as well as 
anyone, so I can't see them getting lost. If they haven't turned up after that, 
then I think we should go back. It's nearly dark now, and even with the torch 
I'll find navigating our return a bit tricky."
Simon said nothing. The idea of stumbling around in the dark and wet all night 
wasn't appealing. Especially if they came across those giggly children again. 
Funny how he'd stopped thinking they'd come from the local caravan park. It 
seemed everyone had ditched that idea, but no one was going to talk about it. If 
they talked about it, then they'd all have to admit to thinking like Paul.
Paul turned the flashlight off to conserve the battery and neither man spoke, 
leaning against the damp outside walls of the house, the yellow glow of the 
kitchen
218 
light leaking no farther than the window, as if the wattage didn't have the 
power to spread the beam through the old pane of glass, leaving them once again 
in the gloom. The two strange children that he'd seen that morning on the way to 
the post office kept appearing in Simon's head, especially the face of the 
little boy.
Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head back, the rain running both over and under 
his glasses. He needed to concentrate on that young face. Behind his lids he 
rewound the morning's events. The two children had been playing on the corner of 
the street in the rain. Patty-cake. That was it. The girl was older and dressed 
more strangely, and the boy was younger. About eleven? Yes. That would be about 
right. He was wearing glasses, cheap but not the kind of huge NHS monstrosities 
Simon had been forced to wear as a child. The boy's glasses had wire rims and 
thinner lenses. In his mind's eye he could see the kid's mouth moving, reciting 
the words of the rhyme, his accent jarring with his playmate's. Yorkshire, that 
was it. Simon felt his heartbeat increase slightly. It seemed as if the name 
were lingering somewhere in the back of his mouth, there but not yet ready to 
come forward. What else had the boy done? Alex had said something to them about 
going home or not wearing the right clothes, he couldn't remember exactly, and 
then--the memory seemed to play out in slow motion--the boy had pulled a New 
York baseball cap out of his back pocket and tugged it onto his head.
Jesus. Jesus Christ. For a second he wasn't sure whether he felt hot or cold, 
the realization hitting him like a cricket ball in the face. The baseball cap. 
That
219 
was it. The boy hadn't smiled this morning--that was what must have stopped him 
recognizing him straightaway. In the photo that covered all the national papers 
during the first few days after he disappeared back in
1990, little Alan Harrison had been smiling. He'd had his glasses on and his 
Yankees baseball cap firmly on his head. His distraught mother said that he'd 
been wearing it the day he vanished. It was his favorite possession, brought 
back from a holiday abroad with his dad. Alan Harrison.
"Oh fuck." Opening his eyes, he pushed himself away from the wall.
Paul spun round. "What is it? Have you seen something?"
"No. No ... I've just figured out who one of those kids was that I saw this 
morning." He could feel his hands shaking. "It was Alan Harrison."
"Who's Alan Harrison?"
Simon half-laughed. "It's crazy. I'm crazy. Alan Harrison went missing in 
nineteen ninety. His picture was everywhere. I know that was him I saw this 
morning." He paused and stared at Paul. "But how can that be? How the hell can 
that be?"
"How did he disappear?" Paul's voice was more energetic, but he didn't sound 
surprised. But then, Simon figured, Paul seemed more accepting of this whole 
fucked up situation.
"It was a weird one. Fucking horrible, actually. He had been over to a friend's 
house to play and went missing during his bike ride home. The police found his 
bike all bent up on the side of the road like it had been hit by a car."
Paul flicked the switch on the flashlight, lighting
220 
them up, his eyes more alive than they had been since the awful events at Kay's 
house. "I remember it. Didn't someone come forward a few days later saying that 
he had run him down?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah. But the man was insistent that he didn't move Alan. In 
fact, he said he didn't even stop the car after he'd hit the boy. His passenger 
supported his statement and the police couldn't find any evidence of the boy in 
the bloke's car or house. It was like someone came along and just took him." He 
shook his head. "Who the hell would steal an injured child? That was the sickest 
bit. Who would abduct a kid in that state? The man had been going at over forty 
miles and hour. The boy would have been severely injured. The state of his bike 
gave that away."
Paul smiled, but the expression shook at the edges. "Don't you get it yet? 
Melanie said to my mum that the Catcher Man brought her back."
"What the hell are you driving at?" Simon had taken acid once at college and had 
felt reality as he knew it terrifyingly slide away from him. Now, standing there 
in the rain, he felt his stomach lurch in the same way.
"The Catcher Man steals lost children and then they're never found. That's what 
my mum said. That's what we were brought up to believe."
"But that's crazy! That was just a story made up to scare you into not wandering 
off."
"Is it?" Paul stepped up close, his face only a couple of inches from Simon's, 
as if physically making him focus on the truth. "You've just said that the boy 
you saw this morning disappeared sixteen years ago. And I know, and so do you 
deep down, that Melanie Parr's at the bottom of these fucking horrible deaths." 
He
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paused, and Simon could see the rain running through the tired lines in his 
friend's face. "What if the Catcher Man does exist? What if all these kids in 
the town are children that have gone missing over the years? What if he takes 
them and keeps them with him?"
Simon tried to pull away, but Paul wouldn't let him. He kept seeing Alan 
Harrison playing patty-cake with that girl in her formal clothes. Was that the 
outfit she went missing in?
"Christ, Paul. How am I supposed to believe any of this?"
"Look. If you'd asked me yesterday morning if I'd believed in ghosts, I'd have 
laughed in your face. I'm a feet firmly on the ground person. But now?" He 
shrugged. "All bets are off. All I can believe are the things I see and hear. 
And you'd better start doing that too or else you really will go crazy." He 
turned around, flashing the light out in front of them, and his voice softened. 
"You know, this part of the world is strange. History runs over a thousand years 
deep here and some of that history is pretty cruel. Blood was shed in human and 
animal sacrifices. Women were burnt as witches. But under all of it was a strong 
belief in the pagan gods. I guess it's like that in places where people are so 
close to nature. Maybe all of that allows things to happen here. Maybe the sheer 
belief of those centuries of people brought the Catcher Man to life. Who the 
hell knows?"
He turned back around and Simon didn't think he'd ever seen a saner looking man. 
Paul stared at him. "And if your eyes are telling you that you saw Alan Harrison 
on the street this morning, then for fuck's sake, believe them."
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Simon stared at his friend, a cold sick feeling settling in his gut. "Come on, 
then. Let's go back to The Rock and let this insane drama work itself out. We 
can't do anything about Melanie Parr here."
They trudged silently back through the forest, the flashlight beam barely 
touching the country night, doing their best to ignore the giggle and sounds of 
movement that appeared so close and yet out of reach. At one point they froze as 
the echo of a man's scream reached them, and Simon grabbed at Paul's arm. "Was 
that Tom or James?"
Paul shrugged, pulling his friend onward. "I don't know. Whoever it is, we can't 
help them." Thankfully, the scream was cut short and for a while there was just 
the sound of their own labored breath as they fought the treacherous wet ground 
beneath their tired legs. Just as they clambered up the last peak before the 
lights from the pub called out to them, a wail slid through the thick old tree 
trunks. "But I don't want to play... I don't want to play... Melanie..."
Listening to the terror in that lost voice, Simon stared at Paul. The only thing 
to believe was their eyes and their ears, wasn't that what Paul had said? 
Neither man spoke and Simon turned to look down at the pub. He'd never been so 
pleased to see a place in all his life, and shutting his ears to Tom Tucker's 
torment, he broke into a trot, half-running, half-stumbling out of the woods and 
back into the village.
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Chapter Twenty-five
Although The Rock was traditionally a pub rather than a hotel, it did a good 
trade in guests in the summer months and the rooms were cozy and clean. Stepping 
reluctantly out of the shower feeling as if she would never wash Mary's story 
away, Alex reached for the thick, wide towel and walked into the bedroom to dry 
off. Pressing the textured material to her face, she shut her eyes and relished 
its clean smell. It was the kind of smell that took you back to the carefree 
days of your childhood, the fresh warmth making you smile and feel safe. 
Although after what she'd just heard, maybe it was only her in this village that 
had been allowed innocence as she grew. Well, that may have been the case, but 
she was making up for it now.
Allowing herself only a moment of the towel's comfort, the feeling too 
bittersweet to last, she moved it to her hair and rubbed vigorously, studying 
herself in the mirror. So far, not too bad, she concluded. She had always been 
slim, although now her limbs were veering
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towards thin and maybe her ribs were just a little too prominent above her 
jutting hips, but she still had shape.
Looking analytically at her hips and breasts, she dropped the towel on the bed, 
letting her wet dark hair hang loose and wild around her face, its length 
tickling her back. How long would that last? How long until she became 
'painfully thin'? Wasn't that what people called it? She smiled at the irony. 
She'd taken four of the eight painkillers Crouch had given her, but they hadn't 
kicked in yet. Yes. She was beginning to understand pain. No more innocence for 
her. Paul had been robbed of his childhood, and she of her adult life. No one 
got away unscathed.
Peering more closely into the mirror, she wondered whether her face had thinned 
or whether that was just her imagination, darkly rotting her flesh away from the 
inside. She felt she was definitely looking older, and dark circles hung from 
her eyes, enhanced by the day's events. Looking into her subtly dying reflection 
for a moment, the fear gripped her again, but she pulled its fingers away, one 
by one. Things were worse for Kay. Worse for the reverend. She met her own green 
gaze and spoke to it.
"I'm still alive. Right here and right now, I'm still alive. And that's all that 
matters."
The knock at the door made her jump.
"Wait a minute!" Not remembering whether she had locked the door when she'd come 
in, she darted into the bathroom and grabbed the dressing gown hanging there, 
pulling herself into it. By the time she reached the handle, she'd tied it.
Simon stood in the doorway holding a plate of 
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sandwiches in one hand and trying to carry two glasses of wine in the other. He 
waved the plate at her. "Could you?"
Smiling, she took the plate. "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry. Did you manage 
to get help?"
He looked tired, the bags under his eyes almost matching her own, and he shook 
his head. "No. No, we didn't even get out of the forest." He paused, and she 
sensed there was more to his story than he was letting on, and she realized that 
she didn't care at the moment as long as her own flesh and blood were okay. 
There'd been too much death and dying. The details could wait until later. "Is 
Paul okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he's fine." His eyes slipped away. "Crouch just told us 
what Mary had to say about Melanie Parr. Paul wanted to speak to her about it, 
but apparently she's asleep. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I guess so. I've slept for an hour or so." She paused. "Look, can we just 
leave all this at the door for a while and pretend the world is normal. I really 
need that. More than you could know."
"Sure. I think my brain needs a time-out from ghosts and secrets too." He 
grinned at her, for a moment shy and embarrassed under her gaze, and she felt 
her defenses crumbling. I'm alive. Here and now I'm alive, and that's all that 
matters.
"Do you want to come in? I may not be hungry, but I could do with that wine."
Following her in, he gave her the glass and stood awkwardly at the end of the 
bed as she sat down. Sipping the red liquid, she watched him. Yes, she liked 
him. She liked his goodness. She could see it in him. She raised an inner 
eyebrow at herself. She also liked his eyes and his smile. In fact, she pretty 
much liked everything about him.
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Tonight they were all on a level playing field; she could feel it in the stormy 
air. The natural world had shifted and all their clocks were ticking loudly. Kay 
hadn't been expecting hers to stop, but stop it did. Had she heard it loudly 
railing at her as she hung there in her bedroom listening to Paul's feet on the 
stairs? Probably. Surely everyone heard it in the end.
Well, she'd had enough of listening to that sound in the dark, alone. Tonight, 
she was just the same as everyone else, and what was wrong with wanting to be 
normal, just for a few hours?
As if feeling her scrutiny, he put down his glass on the small sideboard and 
took a step toward the door. "Maybe I should go back downstairs. You're 
obviously just out of the shower. Probably need some time to yourself."
"I want you to stay." She stood up, her face serious. "Stay with me." She took a 
step forward so they were so close they were almost touching and looked up at 
his face. "I don't want to be alone tonight. And I don't want to be with them 
downstairs." But even that wasn't the truth of it. Not really. And this wasn't 
the time for coy game playing. "I want to be with you."
Behind his glasses, the blue eyes studied her face with that almost unreadable 
openness, and she heard his breath suck in, his nostrils slightly flaring with 
the action. It seemed to her, as the pressure of his silence made her skin 
shiver beneath the robe, that for a moment both of their clocks had paused. 
Nerves and excitement gnawed at her belly. It had been a long time; such a long 
time when compared to what was left, and her sudden need for company, for 
intimacy with someone, with this man, surprised her.
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"So ..." She couldn't look at him as she struggled to keep her voice under 
control. "Are you staying?"
He raised a hand and one finger traced the line of her cheekbone, his eyes 
following the movement. "You're so very lovely. Even after all this, you look 
beautiful."
She watched his mouth move, drawn to its perfect shape, lips neither too full 
nor too thin, and his proximity twisted the ache inside her belly. Reaching up, 
her fingers slid around to the back of his neck and curled into his almost dry 
blond hair. She smiled, her excitement releasing the intensity of the moment.
"You're not so bad yourself. But are you staying?"
A grin stretched across his face as he pulled her closer. "Oh, yes. I most 
certainly am."
They kissed, gently at first, and the feel of his soft lips on her mouth as his 
tongue talked expertly to hers made warmth flood to every extremity of her body. 
Moaning slightly as she pulled at the buttons on his still damp shirt, she tried 
to kiss him harder, but he pulled back, teasing, his breath brushing over her, 
his lips like shadows glimpsed from the corner of her eye, there and not there, 
just touching her enough to send bolts of lightning racing through her system. 
Oh god, it felt good. So good. Almost too good.
His mouth never leaving her skin he pulled off his shirt, and she felt him 
shiver as she ran her fingers up through the coarse, darker hair of his chest 
before he pushed her gently backwards onto the bed.
For a moment they lay there quietly, Simon leaning on one arm as he kissed her 
beneath him, pausing and smiling softly as he took off his glasses, before his 
mouth moved down to her neck and into the hollow
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of her collarbone. Shutting her eyes, she arched her back up to him as his hand 
slid down and unwrapped her from her dressing gown. The emptiness of the air 
around her tickled goose pimples onto the flatness of her stomach, but it was 
Simon alone that caused her nipples to harden under the warmth of his kisses. 
She gasped as he nibbled at her, his hand reaching for her other breast, 
squeezing and twisting, applying just the right amount of pressure to send waves 
of pleasure down between her thighs. If he wasn't careful, she was going to come 
before he'd even touched her. How the hell was he staying in control? She 
couldn't even hear his breathing speeding up. His calmness excited her further 
and she spread her legs, inviting his hand into the core of her.
Momentarily ignoring her openness, his mouth moved back toward her face, leaving 
a cool moist trail in its wake. His tongue pressed into her mouth, and as he did 
so, she felt his fingers sliding into her, pushing her lips apart, a slight 
hesitation the only sign of his surprise at finding how wet she was, how ready 
for him. Lifting her hips, she pushed herself onto his large hand, crying out at 
the feel of his fingers working inside her as his thumb gently rubbed on the bud 
of her clitoris. Their kissing was more urgent now and she squirmed onto her 
side, her own hands moving, one frantically working to undo his trousers, the 
other reaching up to feel his face.
He pulled slightly away from her to tug off his jeans, yanking himself free and 
abandoning them on the floor, but his eyes stayed on Alex's, their blue now 
hazy, his urgent breathing matching hers. His arms wrapped around her as he 
tumbled her over, rolling on
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top, and she could feel him nudging at her inner thigh. Reaching down, enjoying 
the feel of his thickness in her hand, she guided him, eager to feel him inside. 
Slowly he pushed himself forward, his body shuddering with pleasure, his lips 
meeting hers as they gently moved together, fitting so perfectly she could 
almost feel every ridge of him as he moved in and out, her hips greeting his 
every thrust, not just for the physical pleasure, but for the joy it brought her 
soul, lighting up the dark spaces, annihilating them, if only briefly.
His movements became stronger and she held his face in both hands, their panted 
hot breaths blending invisibly together like their bodies were, her words 
dancing in the air from inside him.
"My turn." They were both nearing climax and she smiled as she pushed him onto 
his back, straddling him, impaling herself on him. This was one she wanted to 
control. There was so little she could control anymore. Taking his hands and 
placing them on her breasts, needing him touching her, she shut her eyes and 
rocked her hips back and forward, her own fingers reaching between her thighs, 
the waiting having lasted too long, her building orgasm attacking her from too 
many angles, and as she moved faster and faster on top of him, his groans 
matched her own as he pulled harder at her nipples, until all she could feel was 
his throbbing penis inside her and her own muscles contracting around him as she 
came in an explosion, her hands grasping for his and clutching them, their 
fingers intertwined, he still moving under her, keeping the delicious waves of 
her orgasm invading her every cell, until he reached his own release in the wake 
of her satisfaction, pulling her forward and 
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holding her to him. They lay there wrapped in each other, her hair tumbling over 
him as she buried her face into his chest, until both their breathing returned 
to normal. When she kissed him, it felt bittersweet.
The digital clock beside the bed was flashing 2:00 a.m. and sipping the red 
wine, her head leaning back into the crook of Simon's shoulder, Alex felt safer 
and more relaxed than she had in months. The rain still pattered heavily on the 
small glass window, but the energy and anger had gone from it, washing the 
thunderous lightning away.
Simon's arm was around her and his fingers absently ran over the skin of her 
upper arm. "What happened with your husband?"
The question was light, but Alex felt her defenses bite at her. "Why? What did 
Paul say?"
"Nothing. Just that you'd broken up a few months ago out of the blue." He'd 
obviously heard the note of aggression in her voice, because he twisted to see 
her as he spoke. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It just came out. Guess I can't 
believe that someone would let you out of their life without a struggle."
Letting the warm red liquid explore her mouth, Alex hesitated before swallowing. 
Part of the truth wouldn't hurt, she reasoned. And anyway, it would stop him 
from wanting any kind of future with her. Suddenly, the remnants of wine tasted 
bitter. Her tone was harder than she meant it to be, a little of the pain 
escaping.
"He left because we found out that we couldn't have children. No. That's not 
exactly right. He left because we found out that I couldn't have children.'
Simon said nothing for a moment, and she was glad
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he didn't try to tell her how sorry he was or give her any platitudes about how 
it didn't really matter. She would probably have laughed and he wouldn't have 
understood. She was well aware that her inability to bring forth life really 
didn't matter anymore.
"He left because of that? Just upped and left? Not much of a husband."
He left because he was a coward. She pushed the thought aside, tired of it long 
ago. She was better off without Ian. It'd taken her a couple of months to figure 
it out, but she'd woken up one day and found the love had vanished from inside 
her. Maybe it had never really been there. Only the wish for it.
"No, he wasn't. Anyway, it was easy for him to leave. He'd just got a job in 
Taunton with a big firm there. He asked for a transfer to their Birmingham 
branch and they obliged. I guess he figured that was far enough away." Ian had 
fled to the land of Spaghetti Junction. He didn't even like driving. God, she'd 
wasted her life on him. She let out a deep breath.
"As separations go, it was all very neat and tidy. The cottage was my mother's, 
so it belongs to me. In fact, he didn't want to take anything apart from his 
car. Just packed his suitcases and left." Her slight laugh was hollow. "Guilt 
does make people less obsessed with material possessions." There was a sense of 
irony about Ian's not wanting to take anything, which hadn't been lost on her 
then and wasn't now. It seemed that he'd been rubbing salt into the wound. It 
wasn't as if she'd be needing it. She shut her eyes for a moment. Darkness was 
in danger of creeping back into the night, and she didn't want that. She didn't 
want all those other things to spoil these few hours with this man.
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"Can we leave it now? It's the past. It's done."
Simon kissed the top of her head. "Sorry. Not my business. And not important." 
He stroked her hair, twisting the soft strands in his fingers as if trying to 
tie himself to her. "I've been thinking. Do you fancy getting together and maybe 
having a picnic in the sunshine?" They listened for a second to the melodic 
accompaniment of the rain. "If and when the sun shines again, that is."
Alex rolled over so that she was leaning on his chest facing him. Her stomach 
was knotting and unfurling like an eel. God, this was hard. "Is that your way of 
asking me out on a date when this is all over?" She reached up and kissed him 
gently, her voice soft. "Because if it is, let's just take it as it comes, shall 
we? This isn't the time for making plans. Okay?"
Nodding, he returned her kiss. "Sure. No problem." He flashed her a cheeky grin. 
Too cheeky. He was a bad liar and she could hear the disappointment under his 
words as they ran from that perfect mouth. She could feel it breaking inside 
herself too. But she could cover it; she had to.
Forcing a giggle, she pulled the covers over her head, teasing his stomach with 
her tongue.
His voice was muffled. "Umm. What are you doing?"
Enjoying the warmth of his skin next to hers, she slid herself further down the 
mattress, her mouth working constantly as it slowly but surely sought out its 
target. In a few eager moments, she found it.
The amused words seemed to come from far above her. "Oh. So that's what you're 
doing."
This time the giggle erupting from her full mouth was genuine. She was alive. 
Here and now she was alive. And that was all that mattered.
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Chapter Twenty-six
The teaspoon nearly slipped out of Ada's hand as she dried it, her eyes darting 
backward into the corridor. God, she was jumpy. She looked at her hand with mild 
disgust. Her grip was worthless enough as it was these days, and when she'd 
heard the downstairs bathroom door slam shut, whatever control she had over the 
creaking joints and muscles in those fragile twigs was lost. Placing it 
carefully on the outdated and chipped work surface, her heart paused for a 
second before she got the pounding under control again. She was too jumpy. It 
wasn't as if she were even alone in the house. God, she was acting like a child, 
and her childhood days were long past.
Shutting her eyes for a moment, she waited until relative calm settled in her 
core. Daniel had no doubt used the downstairs bathroom earlier and opened the 
small window, now allowing a gust to drag the door shut. She looked down at the 
ancient, withered hands that she sometimes couldn't believe were hers and 
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almost laughed at herself. Almost. She wasn't quite ready for that yet. Her 
nerves were still too jangly and her mind was burning with the possibilities of 
what was happening to her community.
But there would be a logical explanation, wouldn't there? There always was at 
the end. It had to be a deranged fool on the loose doing this to them. That's at 
least what she'd been trying to tell herself until Mary had unleashed their past 
to all who would listen from her fireside seat in The Rock. And now? Well, it 
was like a spell had been broken. All those years of silence. Gone. Mary's 
speech had forced her to face up to what was going on around them. To make her 
really see.
She stared down at the film settling on the strong tea she'd just made for 
Daniel and wanted to cry. As they'd walked back from the pub, side-by-side and 
soundless through the night, she'd felt that tension creep back between them. A 
tension from thirty years before that they'd both fought so hard to put behind 
them. Daniel had gone straight up to his radio room as if she hadn't even 
existed, and maybe she didn't to him. Not anymore. She glanced over at the 
window and the darkness outside, feeling it reflected in the sudden emptiness of 
her soul as if now that the women's secret was out, there was nothing left to 
hold her together.
The irony was that tonight she needed her husband more than she ever had before. 
She'd needed to talk to him about some of the things that had been said. Daniel 
might not be convinced that there were supernatural forces afoot in their 
hometown, but Ada was terrified that he was wrong. But then Daniel had always 
been so grounded that a part of her wondered whether he'd even believed what had 
happened all
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those years ago until he'd heard Mary regurgitate it earlier.
Sipping her drink, she couldn't quite bring herself to go upstairs and face his 
coldness. Not yet. It was what Alex had said about the children that bothered 
her. The strange children in the village. She shivered slightly. Despite her own 
defensive denial at the time, she knew that poor Alex was right. She herself had 
definitely seen them, both earlier in the day and also on her way down to The 
Rock. Children that were out of place. That was the best way she could describe 
them. Out of place and watching her, too quietly and confidently for normal 
children. Peering out from behind buildings or just standing still and staring, 
there had been something wrong enough about them for her to want to talk to 
Daniel about it. But then the madness of the rest of the day had taken hold and 
there just hadn't been time.
She'd thought she was too old for this kind of fear, but over the course of the 
day it seemed that panic had only been an unexpected shadow away, caught in a 
glimpse from the corner of a tired eye. Since the discovery of the vicar and 
throughout the tumble of events since, the arthritis in her joints had flared up 
as if trying to distract her and the pain had been so much that she'd been 
afraid to stop moving in case she hadn't been able to start again. Would she get 
any sleep at all that night or would there be too many flickers of the past 
coming back to haunt her as she tried to doze and drift? Brief glances of blond 
hair and angelic features. Melanie Parr. Laughing, always laughing.
She sighed as she moved into the hallway. Maybe she shouldn't have snapped at 
Alex like that, but she
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couldn't help it. Alex was too young to know, to understand the sacrifices that 
had been made all those years ago. And it hadn't been meant. That was all that 
had kept her going over the years and she imagined it was the same for the 
others. There was nothing angelic about Melanie Parr, and it wasn't meant. Not 
much of a way to get through life, but country people were hardy. They knew how 
to cope. She knew how to cope. And she would damn well learn to cope with it 
again.
Her eyes drifted back to the empty blackness of the night through the window 
and, lost in her disturbed thoughts, it took a moment before she heard the 
steady drip of water. Where was that coming from? Turning, she looked to the 
taps of the kitchen sink, but they were shut tight. She listened again. Wherever 
it was coming from, it was inside the house. Mildly irritated, this combined 
with the bathroom door slamming convincing her that Daniel had left windows open 
somewhere, the torrent from outside no doubt soaking the carpet, she stepped 
into the hall. And then the world stopped. It seemed that Mary wasn't so crazy, 
after all.
Melanie Parr stood in the hallway, her clothes and hair soaked from the storm 
outside, water dripping from the hem of her skirt and forming a large pool 
beneath her on the polished wooden floorboards. If I don't get that up soon 
it'll ruin the polish. Ada's eyes stared at the water, and the feet at its 
center. One shoe on, one shoe off. Somewhere inside her breath rattled too fast 
in her lungs, the beating of her heart uneven. A dull ache shot down her left 
arm. She thought that maybe she should scream, but the tightness in her chest 
wouldn't let the air out.
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She stared at Melanie, who smiled at her, water dribbling over her bottom lip as 
if a whole river were in her mouth, spilling out in a steady waterfall and 
running down her clothes. Melanie's grin stretched as she spoke, her words 
gurgling so that Ada wasn't sure if she'd said, "It's time to play" or "Its time 
to pay," but as the long-gone child took a step toward her, her cold, blue hands 
reaching out, Ada decided, from somewhere within her terror, that it really 
didn't matter. Both were probably true; it was just a matter of perspective.
Alex woke up the way she had in the first few terror-filled days all those 
months before: with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, her torso reaching upward, 
heart beating so fast that for a moment she couldn't let the air out of her 
lungs for the tightness of her ribs. Eventually, her eyes focused on the room 
around her instead of the horror that had allowed itself free rein in her mind 
as the subconscious ruled. Her hair felt sweaty and greasy against her head and 
she pushed it away from her face. Her skin was clammy under her fingers too. 
That was bad That was worse than it had been in a long time.
As if a remnant of her dreams needed to remind her that the nightmare still 
existed in the daylight hours, a sharp knife twisted in her lower gut, forcing 
her to curl up in the sheets, her knees tucked beneath her chin, eyes squeezed 
shut. It was several minutes before she could open them again, the pain easing 
to a tolerable level. Maybe not something she'd have considered bearable a year 
ago, but she was learning fast that your limits could change. Part of the 
adaptability of the
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species; the good old human race. She still had a couple of months before things 
got really bad. The tears she bit back had nothing to do with the pain and 
everything to do with the sudden blackness she saw in the future. A few months 
and then ... nothing.
Frustrated, she sat up again, ignoring the ache of everything that was her, body 
and soul. It was the dreams. That was it. That's what had made the fear rear its 
ugly head. Think of Simon. Think of last night. Still alive. Here and now. 
Glancing down, she could see his sleeping form in the gloom of the dawn, his 
body turned away, lost in his own dreams or nightmares or just the blackness of 
unconsciousness. His back looked broad and strong and she wondered just how much 
those shoulders could carry. How would he cope if she told him the truth? You 
never could tell with people. Maybe he wouldn't find her attractive anymore. 
After all, who wanted to fuck the living dead?
Biting the inside of her mouth, she looked toward the sound of the rain 
pattering steadily against the window, knowing she was being unfair. But it was 
hard to be otherwise. Life was unfair. Too unfair. Slowly peeling the covers 
back, not wanting to wake Simon, she eased herself out of bed and carefully 
pulled the remaining few painkillers out of her jeans pocket. At some point she 
was going to have to go back to the farmhouse and pick up her morphine. Nothing 
else was even going to touch the sides of her pain. Still, the over-the-counter 
pills were all she had for now. She padded silently to the en suite bathroom, 
and leaving the light off, shut the door, just making do with the pale light 
coming through the small bathroom window. Running the cold tap, she scooped a 
handful of
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water to swallow the pills with and then ran some through her hair before 
standing upright, enjoying the trickle of the water as it made its way down her 
naked body and staring out into the heavy gloom. Laura was out there somewhere 
with little Peter. How were they feeling now? Were they even still alive?
Standing there in silence, she could almost hear the ticking of all of 
Watterrow's clocks, each man, woman, and child's individual timepiece working 
away, unwinding, a cacophony of heartbeats that slowly came together as one, as 
if the village were one entity instead of a hundred or so tiny, inconsequential 
lives, breathing toward their eventual ends.
"Alex."
The urgent whisper of her name came out of nowhere and she spun round, her eyes 
frantically taking in every corner of the bathroom. It was empty. Her own heart 
and its tiny, inconsequential beat now drowned out the collective as she stood 
frozen and wide-eyed. There was no one there. Oh shit. Here we go again. Her 
mouth dried.
"Alex."
The word came from behind her, and she turned again, this time expecting to see 
someone or something other than herself staring back from the bathroom mirror, 
but it was only her own trembling eyes and half-opened mouth that greeted her. 
Who the fuck was calling her if there was no one there? Maybe it's Simon. Maybe 
he's woken up. Maybe your fucked up body is playing tricks on you and it only 
seems like the voice is coming from in here. Stepping forward she tugged open 
the bathroom door and looked into the bedroom. Simon was still lying on his 
side, unmoved
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from when she'd left. She hovered in the doorway, most of her unsurprised to see 
him still sleeping, immune to everything. Because it wasn't Simon's voice, was 
it? And you knew that. It was the voice of a child. Still, she took a step 
forward, wanting to wake him, wanting to flick a switch and bring some bright 
yellow normalcy back. Suddenly her urge to touch him and feel his warmth was 
overwhelming.
"Don't wake him, Alex!"
The urgency in the hissed voice stopped her dead, and despite the ache of 
loneliness inside, she slowly turned again toward the bathroom. Through the 
doorway the room's emptiness taunted her, but stepping back into it, she felt 
her heart calming. Maybe this was madness. Maybe this was a dream or nightmare. 
But whatever it was, she could deal with it. She was dying. She had terminal 
cancer and whatever was going on in here couldn't compete with that. She pushed 
the door closed behind her, shutting Simon on the side of sanity. "Where are 
you? What do you want?" Her own whisper seemed to fill the void in a way that 
the other hadn't, as if it wasn't anchored to the here and now.
"We haven't got much time. Look up, Alex. Look up."
Her eyes lifted and her breath caught. The little boy that had come to her 
bedside was lying on the ceiling looking down at her, the bright checks on his 
tank top instantly recognizable. His arms were pressed to his sides, that 
slightly too long haircut hanging down, the mud still making a dry pattern on 
his sleeves, even though his face shone with dampness. His eyes bore into hers 
as she stared at him and could see fear and terrible loneliness in them.
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"What do you want from me?"
"You have to come in between. Into the storm. You have to come with me. While 
she's busy."
A flash of Ada Rose's face consumed by pain and panic filled Alex's head, and 
then she saw Mary-- Mary in a bath gone cold with blood everywhere. Gasping, she 
clutched at the sink behind her. How was she seeing these things? Were they 
real?
"You're the only one that can come. We have to go now."
Gray reality attacked her so suddenly, the images of the women gone, that her 
legs buckled slightly under her.
"What if I don't want to go?"
She stared at the boy again, and his face contorted with the effort of lowering 
one arm to reach for her.
"You have to. The children are there. No one else can go there. Please come. 
Please come."
Looking up at the desperation in his young face, she knew she had no choice. Her 
heart thumped loudly inside her. Whatever the in between was, that's where she 
was going. She wondered for a moment if she were going insane as she 
contemplated what she was about to do.
"Who are you?" she whispered as she raised her hand to reach his.
"I'll show you."
Once again touching the cool damp of her fingers, she felt moisture spring out 
of every pore in her naked body, not sweat but rain, stale and musty, ripe with 
the scent of the earth as if it had fallen centuries before and yesterday. A 
rain from a time where no clocks ticked. Her breath hissed in, shocked, but the 
boy's fingers closed tightly around hers.
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"It's always raining in between. Now shut your eyes." There was so much sadness 
in his young voice that she followed his command and let her eyelids settle 
shut, sealing her in darkness, and she folded her other hand protectively around 
his. She felt her hair lift slightly with the hint of a breeze, and then they 
were gone.
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Chapter Twenty-seven
The air shifted and she knew before she opened her eyes that the bathroom was 
gone, perhaps so far away that she wondered briefly if she'd ever find it again. 
Beneath her feet she could feel damp leaves and twigs pressing into the soles of 
her feet. I'm not dressed, I didn't get dressed... Her lids flicked upward and 
the thought stopped. She may have been naked when she took the boy's hand, but 
she was clothed now. Above her bare feet there was the hem of a dress, almost 
ankle-length, bright even in the weird green glow that filled everything, a 
gypsy-white cotton dress flowing out from her slim waist. Without even looking 
at the bodice she knew there would be a small embroidered pattern of blue 
flowers there, and lifting her free hand she ran her fingers over it, proving 
its existence. It was her mother's dress. Alicia's dress. The one she was 
wearing in the old photograph on Mary's dresser. The one she was buried in. 
Alex's dark hair hung over her
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shoulders and she touched it, needing a sense of her own reality.
Maybe this is a dream after all. Or maybe, like Alice in the book that had 
terrified her as a child, she'd just tumbled down the rabbit hole to a world of 
surreal insanity. Perhaps that was closer to the truth. Under the dry fabric of 
the dress she could still feel dampness coming from within her skin and soaking 
the inside of her lungs as she breathed in and out. It's always raining in 
between.
She looked down at the child holding her hand, her eyes squinting to see. There 
was no darkness or sunlight, instead only the sickly green glow lighting 
everything as if she were wearing night vision goggles or watching a surreal 
effect in a movie.
"Is this real?" Even her voice sounded watery. The little boy shrugged.
"It is for me. It is for us. There is nothing else."
Seeing the tiredness and age in his young eyes, Alex thought about her cancer. 
There was always something else. There was always death. Although here, wherever 
this place was, maybe death wasn't so close-by. Her body felt odd, almost numb, 
the pain and discomfort she was so used to living with no longer there, as if 
along with time her cancer had stopped. Just for a while. Was that what happened 
in the in between? Did the clocks stop?
"How did you get here? Where is here?" She asked the question and then shook her 
head, distracted. She could hear sounds and laughter in the rustle of the trees 
and for the first time, she really looked around her, past the green hue and the 
dress and the madness. "We're in the woods. I know these woods!" Her 
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excitement lit her eyes. "Is this where Laura and Peter are? Are they lost in 
the woods? We've got to find them. Can you help me find them?" These were the 
woods she had played in as a child, the woods Melanie and Paul had played in all 
those years ago, and although the place the boy had brought her to might exist 
above or below her normal perception, the landscape would surely be the same. If 
anyone could find the children here, it was her.
"Laura? Laura? Can you hear me?" Alex called out into the trees and for a moment 
everything fell silent, the trees and the children who played hidden within 
them. And then a yelp came from somewhere deeper in the wood. It was Laura, she 
was sure of it.
The little boy tugged at her hand, pulling her against the bark of a nearby 
tree. "Not yet. Not yet. I need you to see first. I need you to see how I was 
taken."
Alex stroked his hair. "But Laura and Peter need me. I have to help them. 
They... they're not like you."
He shook his head vehemently. "You can't help them if you don't understand. You 
can't help any of us. I have to make you understand."
Setting aside her frustration, Alex took in the anxiety of the boy, his young 
desperation to make her do what he wanted. Who was she to dictate how it should 
be? This was his place, not hers, and he'd led her this far. It was time to 
trust him. She peered into the still green trees. If time were different here, 
then maybe a few more minutes would do no harm. Crouching down so that she was 
at eye level, Alex nodded. "Tell me what it is I have to understand. Tell me 
what happened."
"I need to show you. You need to see."
"Okay. Show me."
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"Close your eyes."
She did so and the little boy came around behind Alex and put his hands over her 
eyes, the cool skin making her flinch slightly.
"Are you ready?"
She nodded.
"Now open them."
Once again, the world turned, nauseating giddiness spinning Alex out of control. 
When it finally settled, she was in blackness. No, it wasn't entirely dark. As 
her eyes adjusted she could make out shapes in the gloom, gray and fuzzy. Where 
was she? I'm looking down. I'm looking down on things as if I'm on the ceiling. 
Just like he was in the bathroom. With the room in perspective she tried to 
piece it together. Below, she could see stairs, wooden stairs, old and 
untreated, and at the top of them, a door. From the small gap under it, bright 
yellow light crept out. The air was musty and cool, leaving a taste of splinters 
and staleness in her mouth, as if no one had let any fresh air in for too long a 
time. Along the far side she could make out a high bench, maybe attached to the 
wall, she couldn't tell in the dark, but the objects on it reflected slightly in 
the light. A workbench maybe? The pieces dropped into place. It was a cellar. 
She was in a cellar.
A sniffling sound caught her attention and she focused on the dark shadow in the 
far corner. Was there someone there? The shape moved and let out a tiny, 
terrified, muffled sob. Straining to see, her consciousness shifted, launching 
part of her across the room and downward. With a silent scream, the part of her 
left on the ceiling tried to pull back, but it was too late, and suddenly she 
was inside. Inside, looking out.
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The boy's body froze for just a fraction of a second as she slipped into him, 
and then continued its shivering, his whole form shaking with fear. He doesn't 
know I'm here, Alex thought with wonder. He doesn't know I'm right inside him. 
She could feel the heat of his panicked skin that was hers but not hers, and 
seeing through his wide eyes every shape in the cellar seemed to be a snarling 
monster waiting, just waiting for him to move or try to shift his numb legs to a 
new position where the rope didn't cut into them quite so hard.
He slowly twisted his head and wiped the stream of snot coming from his nose 
onto the shoulder of his tank top, the gag tied tight around his head cutting 
into the edges of his lips. And all the while, he kept one eye fixed on the 
small glint of light under the door. Because that's where the real monster would 
come from. That's where he lived. The man monster. Alex could see the red and 
yellow of the sweater even in this darkness and her heart squeezed tight. What 
happened to you? Who's made you so frightened?
The part of her left on the ceiling looked down and thought of the boy's words. 
This boy's words spoken in a place so far away from here. You need to see. You 
need to understand. She pushed her remote consciousness forward, digging deeper 
into his mind so that she was truly inside him, so that she was him.
Callum. His name was Callum Parker and he was nine years old and all he wanted 
was to go home and he was so very, very scared. She pushed backward into his 
memory. Sunday afternoon. Walking home. Bethnal Green. Scared, but not scared 
like now. Nothing like now. He'd been to church with Mum and Gran while
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Dad stayed home to mow the grass, and he'd really wanted to stay and help 
because that would be so much more fun than sitting on the hard bench in the 
church that was never warm, not even on summer days like today, but knew better 
than to ask, especially when Gran was visiting.
She'd knitted him the new tank top he was wearing so that he'd have something 
like all the big boys at school wore, and although he hadn't known how to say 
so, he really liked it. When she'd unpacked it the previous day his mum had gone 
out and bought him a new shirt to wear underneath, a shirt he knew she couldn't 
really afford because he never even got brand-new shirts for school and he'd 
worn them both for church. Billy had been there too, squirming in the 
old-fashioned, uncomfortable suit his mum made him wear every Sunday, which 
surely must have been getting too small for him now, and afterwards he had asked 
Callum to come back to his house to play. His mum had wanted him to go home and 
change first, but that just seemed like too much time to waste, and there would 
only be two hours before lunch and he promised he wouldn't get messy and 
eventually his mum had agreed.
And that's where it had gone wrong. He had got dirty. He'd tried not to, but 
Billy caught a frog down at the pond and Callum had to go and see it, he just 
had to. He'd crept so carefully down to the water and stroked the back of the 
cold slimy creature before Billy let it jump away, and as they turned to get 
back to the safe dry grass, Callum had slipped, his Sunday shoes not made for 
gripping the mud, not like his sneakers that were at home in the kitchen, and as 
he fell one sleeve of
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that new crisp white shirt got covered with mud. And that wasn't the worst of 
it. There was also a tiny hole in the sleeve where it must have caught on a twig 
or where it tugged when he landed.
Tears had sparked in the back of his eyes, and although Billy's mum had told him 
it was going to be all right, Callum knew differently. Callum knew that his mum 
would be upset in the worst way, not in the angry way, but in the sad way like 
she was when she argued with his dad. And Callum hated that. He'd drunk his 
Panda Pop with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and then said it was 
time to go home. He didn't have any play left in him, and slowly he began to 
drag his feet along the quiet Sunday roads toward home.
He was two streets away from his house, his face hot with tears, when the car 
pulled up alongside him.
"Callum? Callum Parker?"
Stopping, Callum looked into the car. A man smiled at him from the driver's 
seat. He was wearing dark sunglasses and his curly hair hung over the collar of 
his blue denim shirt.
"What are you crying for? Are you okay?"
Callum stared at the man for a moment. "How do you know my name?"
"Easy. I work with your dad. Me and my wife Peg came to your house for New Year. 
And your dad's birthday party. Don't you remember?"
Digging deep in his memory, Callum searched for a name and then one came to him. 
"Mr. Wentworth?" he asked hesitantly.
"That's right." The man took off his sunglasses, revealing dark brown eyes, so 
dark that the pupil and iris blurred. "Come over here, son."
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Feeling slightly awkward, but not nervous--after all, Mr. Wentworth wasn't a 
stranger, he knew his name and he'd been to his house--Callum moved to the open 
car window.
"Why are you crying?"
The sweet stink of slightly stale whiskey came with the man's words, and Callum 
slightly cringed, but it didn't unduly disturb him. It was Sunday lunchtime and 
all the men he knew drove to the pub and didn't go home till dinner was on the 
table. Even his dad.
Sniffing, he pulled his shirt around, tugging the sleeve into view. "My mum 
bought this new. I wasn't supposed to get dirty, but I fell and now there's a 
hole in it!" With just the telling of it to an adult more tears sprung to life 
in his eyes and his nose began to run.
"Now that's a shame. That's a real shame." Mr. Wentworth looked up at him. 
"You're mum's going to be mad about that, ain't she?"
Callum nodded, his bottom lip trembling, and it seemed Mr. Wentworth stared at 
him for a long time, those slightly glazed, slightly drunk dark eyes looking 
into his, then down to his ruined shirt, and then up again. Eventually he spoke, 
his conspiratorial whisper forcing Callum to step closer.
"You know, I reckon we could get that sorted out without your mum ever knowing 
about it."
Callum's eyes widened. "How?"
"Well, we could go back to my house. My Peggy's pretty good with a needle and 
thread. She could stitch it up and wash out that dirt in no time at all. Iron it 
dry and bob's your uncle." He winked. "What do you say?"
Hope raised its head in Callum's heart. "Really?"
"Yep. Us men have got to stick together, ain't we?
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Now come on! You'd better hop in if we're going to get you sorted and back home 
in time for lunch."
Callum didn't hesitate. His heart thumping with excitement and tears drying on 
his face, he ran to the passenger side and climbed into the car, grinning. It 
was going to be okay! It was really going to be okay and he wasn't going to make 
Mum mad or sad or disappointed.
Mr. Wentworth pulled the car away quite fast, and taking in the smell of leather 
and stale cigarettes, Callum was too elated to notice how he checked in the 
mirrors just a little too often and how when he turned to smile at Callum and 
squeezed his knee how his hand rested there just a little bit too long.
When they got inside the cool of the Wentworth's house, Mrs. Wentworth wasn't 
home. Standing awkwardly in the hallway and staring at the unfamiliar 
surroundings, Callum felt his heart sink. "Maybe you'd better just take me home, 
Mr. Wentworth." He didn't want to be late on top of everything else, and for the 
first time he got a trickle of the feeling that his parents might not be happy 
with him forgetting in Mr. Wentworth's car. It was different when he'd thought 
that Mrs. Wentworth would be home. Women were different. Here alone with just 
the grownup man he suddenly felt weird. Maybe it was the intensity of the way he 
kept looking at him that uneased Callum.
"Don't be silly. She'll be home in five minutes. Probably just popped up to her 
mum's for something." He grinned again, and Callum could see his 
nicotine-stained teeth, some of them blackening at the edges. "Here you go. I 
made you a squash."
He held out a glass of juice and Callum didn't know what else to do but take it. 
Feeling the man watching him, he took a sip and flinched, his nose wrinkling. 
"It
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tastes funny." Something tingled on his tongue and it seemed that some of the 
sweetness was missing from the drink.
"Nonsense. Anyway, it's rude to complain." Mr. Wentworth held up his own glass 
and drank some. "See? It's fine. Must just be a different brand. Now drink it."
Something in the man's tone of voice made Callum not want to drink it at all; in 
fact, he wanted to put the glass down, make his excuses and go, but he was nine 
years old and he didn't know how. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot and 
downed the drink. Maybe if he finished it Mr. Wentworth would let him go home. 
Feeling it burn all the way down to his stomach, he put the glass down.
"Good boy. Good boy." Mr. Wentworth took a step closer, and out of nowhere 
Callum felt tears stinging in the corner of his eyes again as his head began to 
swim. He vaguely realized that there might be worse trouble in the world than a 
ripped shirt and maybe he should have just gone home and maybe just because 
someone knew your name it didn't make them any less of a stranger.
"When's Mrs. Wentworth coming home?" Those were the words he tried to get out, 
but his stomach was feeling sick and the world was swimming at the edges and 
when he heard himself it seemed that all his words had run into one. His legs 
started to shake and he knew he wasn't going to be able to stand for much 
longer. The tears were flowing freely as the man scooped up his unresisting body 
and walked deeper into the house.
"She's not coming home, son. She didn't understand me."
Callum tried to make sense of it, but the room was spinning. "Feel sick ... "he 
mumbled, trying to quell the panic that was rising somewhere deep inside him.
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"That's just the vodka." They were at a doorway under the stairs, and Wentworth 
grunted as he shifted Callum's weight in order to undo the latch. Cool, musty, 
dark air rushed out at them. "And I popped half of one of her downers in there 
too. Don't worry, you'll be right as rain in a couple of hours."
Callum wasn't sure which came first, the awful dark of the cellar or 
unconsciousness, but as he slipped into it he wasn't sure that he would ever be 
right as rain again.
The first thing he noticed when he came around, other than the darkness, was the 
thick, musty smell of the cellar. His head thumped and his mouth was dry and 
sore. Something was in it, a cloth tied tightly behind the base of his skull. He 
moaned from behind the gag as more tears came. It wasn't a dream, it hadn't been 
a bad dream at all, and why had Mr. Wentworth taken him and why hadn't he just 
gone straight home? The panicked thoughts filled him and he wriggled and 
thrashed in vain against the cord tied around his wrists and ankles until 
eventually the panic could no longer sustain itself.
Banting and sweating, he lay back down on the thin sleeping bag that was all 
there was between him and the freezing concrete floor. He stared at the thin 
strip of light that came from the bottom of the door. It was too yellow to be 
daylight. More like the light from a bulb. How long had be been down there? 
Twenty minutes? An hour? Maybe even longer.
There was animal hair of some kind on his bedding and it tickled at his nose, 
but he didn't have the energy to move. What was his mum doing now? And his gran? 
Were they out looking for him? Were they angry?
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Squeezing his eyes shut he tried not to cry again. He needed to be a big boy. He 
needed to be less scared. But it was hard, so hard down in the dark. His fingers 
were starting to feel numb and he really needed a drink of water, his lips and 
tongue crying out for moisture.
The pain in his head seemed to originate behind his eyes, and despite not 
wanting to relax his vigil against the shadows and the strip of light, he found 
them slipping shut. Maybe he could sleep it all away and when he woke up he'd be 
back at home in his own bed and his gran and mum and dad would all be there 
keeping him safe. Maybe if he went to sleep Mr. Wentworth would realize he'd 
made a terrible mistake and just come and take Callum home and pretend it had 
all been a joke. And Callum would happily go along with it. He'd pretend it was 
a joke. He wouldn't tell. He wouldn't tell anyone.
Somehow though, to the part of Callum that had stopped believing in Father 
Christmas back when he was six, that option seemed less likely than waking up 
and finding it was all a dream. It was the eyes. The look in Mr. Wentworth's 
eyes when he'd picked him up. He wasn't going to change his mind. He wasn't 
going to change his mind at all.
For a while he lay there behind his shut eyes drifting somewhere just above 
sleep but not quite conscious, his head filled with monsters in denim shirts 
with rotten teeth, all trying to ruin his new shirt. He twitched and shook 
slightly, even in his daze his hands tingling sharply from the tight bindings 
around them, and it was only when light finally flooded in that he squinted his 
eyes open, blinking against the sudden brightness. Mr. Wentworth's shape filled 
the doorway and Callums heart thumped into his throat. Without speaking, the
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man came down the stairs and with each thud of his feet against the stairs 
Callum shrunk back against the wall as if he could somehow push his body through 
it to the safety behind the bricks.
When he reached the bottom, Wentworth paused and tugged on a cord, filling the 
room with a dirty yellow glow. Callum glanced up to see the unshaded bulb 
hanging above him, dust and dead bugs covering it and dulling whatever power the 
globe was giving out, sending shadows into the cracks and crevices of the 
approaching mans face. He whimpered quietly as Mr. Wentworth hunkered down next 
to him and grinned. "I've brought you some water. Thought you might be thirsty." 
His dry mouth raging, Callum's eyes darted to the glass in the man's hand.
"Now I'm going to take the gag off, but if you make any noise I'll put it right 
back on. And I'll hurt you. Do you understand?"
Callum nodded. There were ice cubes floating in the liquid. He could hear them 
clinking gently against the side of the glass. It looked so good and sweet and 
he didn't think he'd ever wanted a plain glass of water so much in all his life.
Mr. Wentworth stroked his hand through Callum's sweaty hair. "I don't want to 
hurt you, Callum. I want to be your friend. You've got to understand that." He 
leaned in closer to undo the knot at the back of Callum's head and when he 
pulled away he didn't come right back, but for a moment let his lips brush 
against Callum's, filling the boy's mouth with the smell of alcohol and stale 
breath. Terror clenched in the pit of his stomach and he sobbed ever so 
slightly. He could feel Mr. Wentworth's breath dampening his cheek as he started 
to pant, one
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hand tightly gripping the back of Callum's hair. And then he heard the man's 
zipper coming down.
That was the beginning. The beginning of the end, and from inside the little 
boy's head Alex could see the blur of images and acts that he didn't really 
understand, that moment of terror rushing toward this present one. She thought 
that maybe he had been in the cellar about three days now. It was hard to tell; 
time was all confused in his mind, but she had images of broken sleep, probably 
induced by pills, sparse meals and time spent bruised and sore and shamed, 
staring at the strip of light under the door.
But the worst part, the part that made her own heart feel as if it were 
bleeding, was that under his pain and his fear she felt the sheer desolation and 
despair that was an oil slick creeping across his soul.
She pulled back, making her consciousness whole on the ceiling, wishing there 
was something she could do to comfort the shivering child, broken and distraught 
below her, bringing some of his horror back with her, unable to shake it off 
entirely. But there was nothing. What she was watching was done. The past. Over.
The next time the cellar door opened it was the last time. Alex wasn't sure if 
it was worse watching from above or within, but she screamed silently for Callum 
as the man pulled at his own clothes and then at the boy's, the dirty glow of 
the bulb illuminating the depravity of his actions. But this time Callum didn't 
struggle or cry, the fight gone out of him, as if he finally knew that he was 
never getting out of the cellar, or maybe he didn't want to get out any more, to 
have to face the world and tell what had happened, and from
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the ceiling Alex could see the expression on Wentworth's face change, his lust 
mixing with anger, wanting more from the boy, wanting his fear to show. Pinning 
Callum down with just the weight of his body, the man moved his hands up to the 
boy's throat, squeezing just enough to force Callum's survival instinct to kick 
in. The boy's breath became hoarse, and as he twisted and squirmed, Wentworth 
began to mutter under his breath, lost in the moment, the words hot and angry 
and indecipherable.
Her own breath caught in her throat. This is it. Whatever happens, it must 
happen now. Callum was choking now, the man's grip tightening as his excitement 
grew.
A breeze rushed past her, the wind coming from nowhere and bringing with it the 
dampness of that musty rain, rain from no time and every time. For a moment, as 
she caught her breath, Alex shut her eyes, letting the mist settle on her skin. 
When she opened them again, the scene below her had changed. Wentworth was still 
grunting, destroying the child, his big workman's hands releasing the bruised 
throat to allow Callum to desperately suck in air and then gripping again. But 
despite his fight to breathe, Callum wasn't focused on Wentworth or his pain. 
And neither was Alex.
The tall man's leather coat creaked as he crouched down close to the man and the 
child. From above Alex could see the smooth ridges on his pale blue naked scalp, 
a scalp that had never grown hair rather than been shaved bald, and under the 
darkness of his coat and trousers the steel-capped toes of his heavy boots were 
visible. Callum had twisted his head around and his bulging eyes stared in 
disbelief.
"You know he'll kill you, don't you? Maybe not this
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time. But soon. Later today." The stranger's voice pierced Alex's ears and she 
thought that if she were really here and real it would deafen her, its depth 
resonating so far inside that her insides shook.
"Who ... who ..." Callum was rasping the words out, words that Wentworth was 
oblivious to, and although he never got the full sentence out, Alex knew what 
his question was, and so did the stranger. Who are you?
"I'm the Catcher Man!" He paused and sniffed. "Do you know what death is, 
Callum?" It seemed to Alex that Wentworth was now moving in slow motion, unaware 
of the presence in the room, but still obliging the stranger, the Catcher 
Man--but the Catcher Man doesn't exist, wasn't that what Paul had said?--by 
giving him more time. Callum just stared, bewildered, his pain almost forgotten 
for a second, as if like Alex, his mind and body were temporarily separated, and 
the Catcher Man leaned in. "Death makes you nothing. As if you were never here!"
He sighed, and as he did Wentworth's face crumpled slightly for a moment in 
disgust, as if he'd caught a glimpse of how terrible what he was doing really 
was.
"I can change that. I can take you somewhere else. Somewhere you can be forever. 
It's called the in between. But if you want to come you have to choose now. 
Death, pain, and nothing here, or come with me."
Callum mewled slightly, tears creeping out of his eyes, and Alex didn't have to 
go back inside to know the fear and longing the child was feeling. He was afraid 
of the nothing. He was afraid of the pain. Just like everyone was. And all he 
really wanted to do was go home. To his mum and his gran. And all this was
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over a damaged shirt; it was so unfair and he wished he could just take it back.
"He'll bury you under these floorboards and you'll rot there. And no one will 
ever find you. I can see it. What will be, will be." The leather creaking again, 
the Catcher Man stood tall. "I can keep you and I won't hurt you. But you have 
to choose. Will you come with me, Callum? You won't be alone. There are other 
children in between. Other children that I have given the choice to. Will you 
come with us?"
Tears oozing down his cheeks, Callum nodded, a small movement, but definite. The 
air fell still and then wind and rain tore through the cellar, crackling with 
blue light, Alex's hair whipping against her face, causing her to twist her face 
away, protecting her eyes. The weather rushed in her ears and then fell to 
stillness. Her heart racing, she looked back down, knowing what she would see. 
Or actually, what she wouldn't see. Wentworth had twisted around, his undone 
trousers revealing his suddenly flaccid penis, his breath short and eyes wide. 
His head spun searching out the cellar, eyes darting into every corner like a 
panicked rabbit, his mind already unraveling.
Alex thought he might sit down there, staring at the old sleeping bag for a 
long, long time before he dared to move. It wouldn't change anything.
Callum and the Catcher Man were gone.
And then, so was she. Back to the green of the forest. Callum took his hands 
from her eyes and came back around to face her.
"Did you see?" He searched her face. "Did you understand?"
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Her heart breaking, she shrugged. "I'm not sure. I saw him take you. I saw what 
happened. The Catcher Man is real, is that what you wanted me to see?"
Callum's forehead crumpled with frustration as he shook his head. "Come on." 
Taking her hand, he led her farther into the forest.
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Chapter Twenty-eight
When Simon eventually opened his eyes, he didn't know whether he had drifted for 
a minute or a lifetime. There had been dreams, he was sure of that, but all that 
was left of them was a bad taste in his mouth and a sense of dread and 
unquantifiable unease. Although maybe that was just the truth of their reality 
slowly sinking in. Dead children sending messages. Missing children. Long 
missing children haunting them from the corner of their eyes. It was crazy, but 
lying there, surrounded by the history of the village, he knew he believed it. 
Sighing, he knew that despite his fatigue he wouldn't be going back to sleep, 
and he looked over at the clock. The red figures staring back at him from the 
bedside declared it was 5:45 in the morning.
Groaning, his muscles and soul screaming in exhaustion, he rubbed his face with 
his free hand and then turned to seek out the woman that had tumbled into sleep 
with him. The pillow next to him was empty.
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He stared for a second, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
"Alex?" He barely spoke the word, staring at the room around him. The door to 
the bathroom was nearly shut and he couldn't see a light on, but that didn't 
mean she wasn't in there. Pushing the covers away, he sat up on the edge of the 
bed, shaking the last of his doziness away. In the gloom that seemed to be all 
that daylight had managed since he'd arrived in the village, he could make out 
Alex's clothes thrown carelessly on the chair in the corner. A minute of life 
clicked away on the digital clock and his brow furrowed. She must be in the 
bathroom.
"Alex?" He called her name a little louder this time. It was odd. He couldn't 
hear running water. And she didn't strike him as the kind of girl to leave the 
bathroom door ajar if she was using the toilet. He shook himself. It was stupid 
to be worried. Her clothes were here, for Christ's sake. She couldn't have gone 
far. She might even have gone downstairs in her dressing gown to get herself a 
coffee. He'd give it a couple of minutes and then go and check on her.
Thinking about her made him smile. There was something about her that was 
special, there was no doubt about that. When he thought about the way she had 
reacted with such grit to all the awfulness of the death they'd faced, it 
clashed with the ethereal quality of her nature, creating a fascination that 
struck his core. Maybe she was right to say that this wasn't the time to be 
thinking of the future, and if that's how she felt he wasn't going to argue with 
her, but he thought that maybe now was the perfect time to be planning for 
something good. And this could be good, he was
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sure of it. He hadn't felt the growing pains of love for a very long time, but 
if he wasn't mistaken he was feeling them now. More sharply and clearly than 
ever before.
There was still no sound from the bathroom and pulling his own crumpled clothes 
back on, cursing slightly to find them still damp, he padded over to the door, 
tapping on it gently. "Alex? Are you in there?" Again, there was only silence, 
and flicking the switch he pushed the door. The room was empty.
The unease that he'd woken with flared like acid in his gut and he tried to 
quell it. It was nothing. She'd gone downstairs, that was all. That was probably 
what had woken him. He splashed water on his face and tidied his hair before 
going back into the bedroom to get his glasses. Maybe she was on her way back up 
to him with a steaming mug of coffee, but he was awake now and he figured he may 
as well go and see how many others were up.
Pushing open the heavy door that led to the downstairs bar, Simon was struck by 
the surreal sight that greeted him. It seemed more like a scene from an 
apocalyptic nightmare film than what should have been, and what would have been 
only a couple of nights before, the stereotypical cozy English country pub. The 
natural warmth of the wood floor and pale yellow walls was dulled by the wash of 
the gray dawn light that filtered through the windows, cracking into tired 
shadows on contact with every surface. Some people were still dozing in chairs, 
others looking like they'd just woken up, hair and eyes blurred.
Paul was standing gazing out the window, his back ramrod straight, and Simon 
guessed that his friend hadn't so much as shut his eyes for more than a blink
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during the past few hours. What would he see in the darkness behind those veils 
if he did? His mother taunting a child to her death? Or Kay Chambers dying in 
front of him? Either way, it wasn't good.
The strange morning light seemed to caress Paul's face, inviting him to step 
outside if he were brave enough. Perhaps sensing Simon near him, he turned and 
gave him an imperceptible nod before looking back out at the new day. The storm 
may have stopped but the rain wasn't appeased, the road outside a ghostly blur 
through the water that ran down the glass.
"Have you seen Alex? She's not upstairs."
Paul glanced around the room. "No. I thought she was in bed. I went upstairs to 
try and get some sleep, but I'm not sure that I did. Maybe half an hour here and 
there. I was just going to get some coffee and go and see if Mum was awake."
Simon couldn't squash his disquiet so easily this time. "All her clothes are 
still upstairs. Where could she have gone?'
Paul looked at Simon for a second, then reconciled the unspoken and turned back 
to the window. Maybe a few days ago the idea of his friend sleeping with the 
cousin that was like a little sister to him may have upset him, but not anymore. 
Now, if anything, it seemed to give him a tiny shred of peace that at least two 
people had found some comfort in the night. His eyes had more focus in them at 
any rate.
"Maybe someone lent her some dry clothes?"
Alice Moore, her eyes hollow, silently drifted past them with a tray of white 
cups.
"Have you seen Alex?"
The old woman shook her head, barely pausing,
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and Simon grabbed two mugs, handing one to Paul. His insides were itching, 
frustration building. Where could Alex be? And if she'd gone out, why hadn't she 
woken him? The coffee was tepid, but he drank it.
"Look mate, let's go and see if she's gone up to the Roses' place. They may even 
have got that radio working overnight. Why don't we do that and then go and wake 
your mum up? Surely if she's still sleeping that's a good thing." And I need to 
know what's happened to Alex. I need to know where she is. Or where she isn't.
His unspoken concern must have echoed loud, because Paul turned away from the 
window, really seeing his friend for the first time. "Why the hell would Alex 
have gone out without telling us?"
"That's what I want to know. She'll be up at the Roses'. She must be."
Paul nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, of course she is. But you're right. Let's go there 
before waking mum." His voice was slightly jittery and Simon knew he wasn't the 
only one suddenly concerned about Alex's whereabouts.
Downing their coffee, Simon sought out both their coats from the heap by the 
door while Paul signaled Crouch over.
"We're going to see if Daniel Rose has got the radio working. I think Alex might 
have gone up there already, so we want to catch up."
Crouch shrugged. "I haven't seen Alex come downstairs. I thought she was still 
sleeping. But then again, I'm so tired I don't think I could see my hand if it 
was waving in front of my face."
"If my mum wakes up, tell her I'll be back in ten minutes or so. Doesn't seem 
like anyone's sleeping for long."
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Crouch's grin was worti but sympathetic. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll get some 
toast and fresh tea and take it up to her."
"Thanks, mate."
"Not a problem. All part of the service." He paused, a little awkward. "You 
know, she's been a good friend to me over the years, regardless of whatever she 
may have done in the past. She's a good woman, your mum. They don't make them 
like that anymore."
Paul's face tightened with many emotions, but Crouch turned away before he was 
forced to speak. Simon hoped that his happy-go-lucky friend of only days before 
hadn't gone forever, but looking at the man beside him it was hard to believe 
otherwise.
"You ready?"
Paul nodded, and they headed out into the rain.
The water was running in streams through the crevices and dips in the worn, 
steep road and Simon gazed at the purple sky as they carefully trudged up the 
slippery hill. "Just how long can this rain keep going?"
"I don't know. We'll probably have to build a fucking ark to get out of here." 
The bitterness had crept back into Paul's voice. "Maybe it'll be quicker than 
waiting for the police." He sighed, letting some of that rancidness ebb away. "I 
really picked the wrong weekend to bring someone down to meet the family." 
Raising an eyebrow, he almost smiled. "It's not always like this, you know."
Simon grinned back, relieved to know that somewhere deep inside his friend a 
tiny flash of humor still pulsed. "Glad to hear it. I don't know how my family 
will compete if I ever have you to visit."
Paul let out a snort, but as they approached the
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house Simon wondered just how much Paul was laughing inside. He rang the 
doorbell. Nothing happened. He tried again.
"Try the knocker." Paul's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, all humor now gone. 
Simon banged the old metal hook down hard against the wood. The few seconds of 
silence seemed to last forever. Shit. Oh shit.
"Can we force it?"
Simon shrugged. "We can try. If it's just an old lock and key then we should get 
in without too much of a problem, but if there's a Chubb lock on, then we may 
have to find another way in." He appraised the solid wood in front of him.
Reaching forward, he grabbed the handle firmly and twisted it, pushing inward, 
expecting to feel the rattle of the locking mechanism holding him back. Instead 
the door swung smoothly open, inviting them in. Taking a hesitant step forward 
but staying on the street side of the entrance, he pulled the door back a little 
and peered at the locks, running his fingers over them.
"The lock's got the snib down to keep the latch off. They've got a chain here. 
Why haven't they used them?" Maybe the Roses figured that a little thing like a 
locked door had no chance of keeping Melanie Parr out, so why bother? Or maybe 
like the rest of us they were too damn tired to remember a little thing like 
securing their home.
Paul pushed past him and into the house. He stared down at something out of 
Simon's view for a second before signaling him in. "You'd better take a look at 
this."
The cozy warmth of the house made Simon's stomach turn as he looked down at the 
body of Ada Rose
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discarded in a heap by his feet. The sudden tightening in his heart surprised 
him with its ferocity. In the short time he'd known them, he'd formed a strong 
attachment to this elderly couple with their no-nonsense country ways. His 
breath caught in his throat.
Looking at the smallness of her form, his vision snagged on a nearby footprint. 
Following it backward, he saw several like it coming down from the stairs. 
Small. Childlike. What a surprise. What was it that had made the footprints, 
though? Water? It looked too dark. His brain wandered slowly through the 
possibilities, protecting him from the worst. "What is that? Mud?"
Paul knelt down and touched the mark, rubbing the substance between his fingers 
with distaste. "Blood."
Legs moving almost without his permission, Simon took the stairs two at a time, 
climbing through the house to the small radio room at the top, his thoughts in a 
whirl. Maybe Daniel locked the door. Maybe he didn't know what had happened to 
his wife. Maybe he just hadn't heard them knocking. Maybe, maybe, maybe. And 
maybe you should grow up and face the truth. The old man's dead. You know it.
Yeah, he did know it, but as he burst through the small door of the attic room, 
the twisted reality of Daniel Rose's death hit him in glorious Technicolor. 
There was blood everywhere. Nothing in the room was untouched. He could feel the 
heat pulsing out from Paul's body as he joined him, the two of them sharing the 
small space of the doorway, neither of them moving, just staring at the shrunken 
old body collapsed on the desk. Simon's stomach heaved as he realized that the 
sweet smell that filled the air was that of the old man's blood so richly spread 
about them.
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Static blared out of the radio and both men jumped.
"Jesus." Simon stared at Paul as the roar turned to a crackle, then turned into 
distant words.
"Did you see? Did you understand?"
Paul shivered. "Who the hell is that? Are they talking to us?" Paul's voice was 
barely a whisper.
Stepping carefully toward the sticky pink machinery, it seemed to Simon that the 
walls of the tiny room were moving inward, forcing him to draw in deeper breaths 
of the blood-impregnated air. His stomach turned. Was he breathing in fine 
particles of Daniel Rose's cold lifeblood? Heat rushed to his face. Get over it, 
Watley. You 've seen worse than this. This is no time to develop claustrophobia. 
Its just one more death, no different from the vicar and sure as hell no worse 
than Kay Chambers. And so what if the tiny, tinny voice sounded too much like a 
child to be anything else? It wasn't as if that should be any great surprise 
after the past forty-eight hours.
Still, his hand shook visibly as he gently lifted Daniel Rose's cooling wrist 
and moved it away from the Transmit button. No. Maybe no different. But one 
more. And how many more are we supposed to be able to deal with before we all 
crack up? He breathed deeply before pushing down the button. "Hello? Hello, is 
there someone there?"
Simon looked at the small knife embedded deep into the old man's neck, the blood 
congealing, threatening to glue it crustily into place before long. All that 
came back at him was static. Paul stepped up beside him. "Who was that?"
Simon shrugged, lifting his hand away from the microphone. "I'm not sure." They 
stared at the machinery, and then the words came again.
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"Did you see? Did you understand?"
The words seemed more distant this time, and when the other voice came through 
it was so faint it seemed to be traveling across faraway universes. But despite 
its quiet, it was heart-stoppingly recognizable.
"I'm not sure. I saw him take you. I saw what happened. The Catcher Man is real, 
is that what you wanted me to see?"
Paul gripped at Simon's sleeve. "Alex. That's Alex."
His heart freezing and dripping cold into his guts, Simon knew he was right. 
That was her voice and it sounded like it was coming from far, far away. Alex 
was gone somewhere, and he had a feeling it was a place where he and Paul 
wouldn't be able to follow.
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Chapter Twenty-nine
Holding Callum's hand, Alex was amazed at how strong her legs felt as they 
clambered through the trees up the steep bank. Not only her legs, but her whole 
body seemed changed. Healthy. Whole.
"Am I still dying? I feel different."
The little boy gripped her hand with his cold one. "There is no death here. No 
death and no life. Just in between. Like us."
Something in his words made her shiver. Limbo. They were in limbo. Despite her 
renewed health, the atmosphere around them seemed sickly, from the smell of the 
rain to the green hue. How long had Callum and the other children been here? 
Glancing down at his serious and desolate face, Alex wondered for the first time 
in months if perhaps there was something worse than death. To be stuck here, 
stagnating for years.
"Is it always like this? I mean, is the in between always in the woods?"
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"No. Sometimes it's just the storm. It's always raining. Sometimes it's a place 
I can't even describe. An empty place." A dark shadow passed across his face and 
Alex hoped it was somewhere she wouldn't have to see.
From behind the trees ahead of them, two children stepped out. The small hand in 
hers tightened as Callum stopped suddenly. Alex recognized them immediately. 
They were the girl and boy that had been playing patty-cake in the street. The 
boy stared at her, his face hard and angry under his baseball cap. Raising one 
finger, he waggled it at Callum.
"She shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have brought her here."
Callum pulled into Alex's side, but didn't hide behind her, and Alex could feel 
his quiet determination. She was glad of it, because as much as she wanted to, 
she didn't understand what was happening. The girl in the old-fashioned tunic 
dress took a step toward them. "She doesn't belong here." She smiled. "Melanie 
won't be happy with you."
Callum stepped forward, his head at least a foot shorter than hers, but his chin 
held high. "She belongs here more than the ones Melanie brought. They're alive. 
Proper alive."
"She's going to be so mad with you. You'll be paying for this for a long time. 
Forever." She looked at the boy and they snickered. "Poor little Callum."
Alex stared at the two children, the blackness in their eyes that went right 
through their souls. What had happened to them to destroy their humanity? Was it 
this place? Was it whatever they'd gone through before they got here? Or was it 
just being so close to Melanie's poison that had done it?
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Looking into their almost malevolent young faces, pale and sick-looking in the 
green light, Alex had a terrible moment of realization: most of the children in 
these woods, including these two and Callum, had been in between far longer than 
they had been in the real world. How much of their lives did they even remember? 
Probably only the final terrifying events. Jesus, and then they'd been trapped 
here. Even with their cruelty writ large on their faces, Alex felt sorry for 
them. Somewhere deep down in those twisted caricatures were lost children whose 
only fault had been that they were too scared to die. That thought gave her 
strength. Who cared if she didn't know what the hell was going on? One thing she 
did know was that Pete and Laura were in these woods somewhere and she didn't 
want them contaminated by it any longer than was necessary.
"Where are the children from the village? What's Melanie doing with them?" Her 
tone was authoritative. Whoever they were, she wasn't going to be intimidated by 
some lost children. There was nothing they could do to her compared to what Ian 
had done and the cards fate had dealt.
The boy snickered, the baseball cap keeping the constant rain off his glasses, 
but still Alex could see the slick water on the skin of his face. "Wouldn't you 
like to know."
"Yes, yes I would." Resisting the urge to slap him hard in the face, she reached 
forward and grabbed his shoulders, ready to shake it out of him. The minute 
she'd gripped him she felt the world sharply shift, and just before her 
surroundings slid away, transformed to bright sunshine, she heard Callum call 
out excitedly, "You've got to see!" Taking a deep breath, she let herself go, 
straight to the inside.
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* * *
His legs were pumping hard as Alan pulled away from Archie's house, the bike 
roaring into life beneath him. He was going to be late for tea, but who cared? 
Archie's dad had brought home one of the new game machines from Sony, where he 
worked, and it was ace. They wouldn't even be in the shops for at least another 
year, and him and Archie had got to play on it for hours. It was going to be 
almost too cool talking about it in school.
His prized New York baseball cap kept off most of the glare from the low 
afternoon sunlight, but he still had to squint to make out the curves of the 
road, his mind still somewhere between the game and the here and now. Maybe 
Archie would invite him again tomorrow and they could get to the next level and 
see what the little hedgehog could do then. Archie's dad had said he could only 
have it at home for the one night, but you never knew, he might forget to take 
it back to work.
His glasses slipped slightly down his nose, blurring things for a moment before 
he took one hand casually away from the handlebars and pushed them back, the 
bike barely wobbling as it speeded up. He hated the glasses. Yes, they meant he 
could see the blackboard at school, and yes he could sit at the dining room end 
of the lounge and still see what was going on on the television, but what his 
mum and dad didn't realize was the sheer horror of becoming a four-eyes, a 
spec-head, when you weren't one of the geek squad. His mum said they looked 
nice. Made him look grown-up.
The thought of her made him smile, but she didn't get what school was all about. 
No grownup did. It was about football and friends and the playground. It 
definitely wasn't about seeing the blackboard. But as it
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turned out, he'd had the glasses a couple of weeks now and the teasing hadn't 
been too bad. He'd been made fun of a bit in the changing rooms, but then when 
he'd back talked old Mr. Stevens until he looked like his face was going to 
explode, all was well again. It had cost him an hour after school cleaning 
graffiti from all the desks and he'd been yelled at by his dad, but it was worth 
it. His status had been restored. No one would be calling him four-eyes again.
He turned into Mayberry Crescent and pedaled past three small children crouching 
by the gutter, staring into it at something that held them in wonder, chirruping 
quietly to each other. They didn't look up as Alan raced by, his head lost in 
his own thoughts. Maybe they'd have fish and chips for tea tonight. That would 
finish off what had turned out to be a pretty good day just about right. And 
since Mum had gone full time as the doctor's receptionist, what had been a 
once-a-month treat was getting to be more than once a week, and that was fine 
with him. His stomach rumbled with the thought.
Turning onto Queen Street, he stayed close to the curb as he rode. The sun was 
like a giant spotlight filling the end of the road, and he had to keep his head 
down because without sunglasses there was no way he could look into it. Even 
after one glance, sun spots danced in his vision. The wheels of parked cars 
loomed ahead and he pulled further into the road to ride alongside them.
Ahead he could hear a car engine traveling toward him, but he wasn't concerned. 
The sun was in front of him, not the car, and the road was easily wide enough 
for the both of them to travel through safely. It was only the sound of the 
engine, its roar, that made him ever look up at all. The car sounded like it was 
going fast,
276 
too fast for this thirty mile an hour zone in which most people did more like 
twenty.
Instinct raised Alan's head and the bike wobbled. Time turned into mud, sliding 
slowly around him. The car was much closer than he'd thought, too close to him, 
and it was too far over, far too far over on his side, and as he stared, the 
sunshine like a halo around the hulk of metal, he could see the man behind the 
wheel staring at the woman in the seat beside him, one hand raised as he shouted 
at her, oblivious to the road and to Alan.
The parked cars formed a barrier from the curb, and realizing there was nowhere 
for him to go, Alan felt his heartbeat pound to the rhythm of the sliding mud. 
The passenger who'd been staring out the window, trying to ignore the tirade 
coming at her, turned to snipe back, her gaze freezing as it fell on Alan, and 
as he stared into her eyes and saw the scream forming in the O of her mouth he 
knew what was going to happen, they were going to hit him and there was nothing 
he could do about it, and then time speeded right up again and he squeezed his 
eyes shut. ...
It wasn't the impact of the car that forced Alex out of the boy and to her 
observer's position on the other side of the road. Nor was it the sickening 
series of crunches as his body hit the pavement, the bones shattering into his 
organs. That she was prepared for. It was the pain. The sheer awful pain. For a 
moment or two, she lay there inside his pulped body against the hard ground, 
neck twisted sideways, staring unmoving, incapable of moving, at the wreck of 
his bike that lay about twenty feet away--only got it at Christmas, dad is
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going to kill me--and his New York baseball cap that fell somewhere in the 
middle; then his brain registered the pain and she couldn't take that or the 
scream inside his head.
Suddenly, she was out. Across the street, barefoot in her mother's dress. 
Watching. The car, which had briefly paused, screeched away to its own future 
and somehow Alex knew that one day the woman in the passenger seat would take 
her own life because the boy had just disappeared. When the sound of the tires 
had faded, it seemed that everything was still and silent in the aftermath. From 
where Alan lay, she could make out wet slapping sounds, which she knew was the 
scream inside him trying to get out. He should be unconscious. He should be 
unconscious or dead.
Stretching herself, bracing against the pain, she dipped a little back into his 
thoughts. The mixture of pain and anger made her reel. Oh, he was still so awake 
in there, awake and in agony and knowing he was dying and How could they have 
just driven off? how could they have just driven off? and she pulled back again, 
knowing that he couldn't even feel her. He was beyond feeling her and there was 
nothing she could do for him but watch this play out. To see.
It wasn't long before she felt light rain on her face, the wind bringing it 
straight down the deserted street, and even though she kept her eyes open this 
time, she still didn't see him appear. One second there was only the broken boy 
on the pavement, and the next, the Catcher Man was standing next to him, his 
long leather coat blowing out behind him in the wind he carried. The sudden 
change in weather had made the baseball
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cap dance in the road, and the Catcher Man stooped to pick it up before turning 
back to the child and crouching beside him.
Even from the other side of the road, his words unclear, Alex felt the pain in 
her ears as he spoke quietly to Alan Harrison. She knew what he was saying. The 
words that were truth, but only part of the truth. He was dying. The agony was 
terrible and it would be for the next few hours. There would be no more games of 
football or computer games or fish and chips. Only death. Terrifying death. Cold 
and alone. And then came the choice. That she heard clearly enough. You have to 
choose. Come with me to the in between with the other children.
Her own anger whipped the wind into her hair, knowing already how the child 
would accept, knowing how he would become in the long years there and knowing 
how his family were destroyed in that instant because they would never know, 
would never know what happened to him, and that would be too much for them to 
bear. She let out a silent scream of frustration.
From the other side of the road, the Catcher Man looked up, looked straight at 
her, puzzled, and in his eyes she could see some of Alan Harrison. The boy on 
the pavement was gone. As was his hat. She wasn't sure who vanished first, the 
Catcher Man or her, but the world shifted again and she was back in the wood.
She was still gripping the boy's arms, and releasing him, she stepped backward. 
Her breath was coming fast. The boy was staring at her, and she wasn't sure if 
it was dread or awe she saw in his face, but there was less cruelty there, as if 
somehow a little bit more of his soul had found its way back to him.
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"She's taken them to the clearing. The ravine, She's taken them to where the 
Catcher Man is. He said she could have her revenge." He sounded like an ordinary 
boy. He touched his cap almost tentatively. "You were there. I saw you." Alex 
would have smiled at him if he hadn't grabbed the girl's hand and dragged her 
running back through the woods, whatever had happened between them too much for 
him to deal with.
Callum was smiling as she stared thoughtfully after the disappearing children. 
"You see, don't you? You understand? You know how to stop her?"
This time Alex nodded, her voice almost a whisper. "Yes. Yes, I think I do."
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280
281 
Chapter Thirty
He feels the ripple like a tug deep inside him, and with a gasp that makes the 
trees shake he lifts his head, eyes staring out into the clearing. He sees it 
all in front of him and inside him--the dry clearing, the hub of the storm with 
Melanie at the center smiling triumphantly as some of the others he's released 
from inside tie the girl and the boy who shouldn't be there to a large oak. The 
tree is hundreds of years old and has power of its own, as does everything here 
where once, in the old times, before such things got lost, magic took place.
It's not what he sees in front of him that sends the echo of disturbance through 
the vast spaces inside, but what he sees in the events of the past, in one of 
the choices he has made. Something has changed there. He tugs on each of the 
threads of time to see which one is vibrating out of tune and then he finds it. 
There is a street and a car and a broken boy, all making the moment. But things 
are not as they were. There is someone else present in the gateway to the in 
between when he
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is taking the dying boy, and he hears her silent scream threatening to shatter 
him. Her dark hair flies outward in a rage as they look at each other. He 
doesn't understand her anger. He doesn't understand her emotion or the 
children's or Melanie's. But his lack of understanding is irrelevant to him. 
Those things, the human things, hold no interest for him. What interests him is 
how she got there, and how it is that her presence doesn't jar the balance like 
the others do. He knows where she is heading, the way he knows so many things 
without ever wondering how. Wondering is a human trait and he has never been 
human. He knows she is coming and he knows she will try and stop Melanie, and if 
he understood human emotions he would know that the feeling running through him 
is relief.
The children tied to the tree are crying and he finds looking at them almost 
painful, their color, their life, too bright for him. But no matter. That would 
change. Melanie wants her revenge, to recreate the past and make him give them 
the choice, and when they are in between she can play with them forever. He 
hopes that after that her desire for revenge will stop and he will be able to 
gather them in and move the storm. He hopes that will be the case, but part of 
him is uncertain. Everything is changed, all is unbalanced, and perhaps she 
won't stop until all of the villagers are dead. And then? And then will come the 
battle between them. He reflects once again that maybe he shouldn't have allowed 
her power. Not in a place like this. A special place. Staring at it all, the 
past and the present, he feels himself ache with overwhelming exhaustion, the 
little girl a leech on all that is his essence, and again lowers his head into 
his hands.
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Chapter Thirty-one
"Do you think this rain is ever going to stop?" Paul's head was down as they 
made their way back to the pub, stepping carefully on the treacherous, wet road. 
His voice was hollow, any glimpse of humor that Simon had heard on their way to 
the Rose house now buried again in the depths of his soul, maybe forever. Simon 
sniffed. "Yes, I do. I think it'll stop when all this shit stops. Although when 
the fuck that will be, who knows?" His language was slipping into the gutter as 
it always did when he was tired and frustrated, but this time, adding to it was 
a deep-seated fear. Not for himself, but for Alex. She had just vanished naked 
into thin air, gone somewhere or nowhere, and obviously thought that whatever it 
was she had to do, she could do it without him. Was that what bugged him most? 
That she didn't need him? Examining his feelings he knew that was partly right, 
but it wasn't everything. The main thing was just wanting her back in the 
relative safety of the crowd. The grit that had made her go off
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on her own was one of the traits that he liked most, but he was afraid for her 
and he knew Paul was too.
They strode on in silence for a few moments until the vague comfort of The Rock 
came into view at the curve of the road. Simon glanced over at the woods. They 
glared back at him, a wall of dark shadows and silence. Just what the hell was 
going on behind that serene bank of trees? After his and Paul's experience in 
there, he knew that the woods were hiding too much that was beyond his 
understanding, and he couldn't help but wonder if they were hiding Alex in there 
too. The other voice on the radio had been that of a child and he would bet 
everything he owned that it didn't belong to one of the local children. It 
seemed that although the strange children visited the village when it suited 
them, it was the woods they retreated to.
"What are we going to do, Paul?"
"We're going to get some recruits in the pub and then go back into the woods. 
That's where Melanie died. Somewhere in there. And that's where Alex, Laura, and 
Pete will be."
"Do you think we'll be able to find them?"
Paul laughed. "God only fucking knows. What do you think?"
Simon said nothing as they pulled open the door. If whoever's got them wants 
them to be found, then maybe we've got a chance. Otherwise? Probably not a hope.
It was good to be back under the warm glow of the old yellow lights that had 
stayed on all night, making the mahogany of the bar and wooden floor and tables 
shine as if just polished. And maybe they had been. Who knew what people had 
been doing to keep busy and sane? Even if it was just for a few minutes, Simon
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was pleased to shed his sodden jacket, and it was only when both he and Paul had 
hung them and got to the bar that he realized how silent everyone was. Crouch 
was pale behind the bar, his face trembling slightly. Paul didn't seem to notice 
and he sighed, letting his weight drop heavily onto a bar stool before looking 
up at the bartender.
"The Roses are both dead in their house." His mouth twisted slightly. "No 
message this time. I guess that little dead cow doesn't need to leave a 
signature anymore. God knows where Alex is, but somehow we heard her voice 
through the radio. Don't ask me how, because I haven't got a clue. She's with 
some kid. But not Laura or Pete."
It was only when Paul got no reaction from the silent villagers around them that 
he noticed that something seemed to be wrong here as well as in the Rose house. 
He stared at Crouch, then at the others around them.
"What? What is it?"
Crouch said nothing, just swallowed.
Simon felt his heart beating faster. What now? "Has something happened?"
"Yes. Yes, it has." Crouch's voice had none of its normal gruff confidence. 
"Look Paul, I'm really sorry. It's your mum."
Simon watched his friend's knuckles tighten on the edge of the bar. "What's 
happened to her?"
"I went up to take her some tea. Thought I'd wake her up while you were out, 
like I said. There was no answer and the door was locked."
"Get to the point." Paul's voice could have shattered glass.
"Well, when I got inside I found her in the 
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bathroom." He leaned forward and gripped Paul's hand. "It wasn't the girl, Paul. 
The little girl didn't get her. It was ... She ... she was in the bath. She'd 
... she'd cut her wrists."
Paul stared. "She's dead?"
Crouch nodded. "I think she must have done it last night when she went up to 
bed. After what she'd said." He paused, his voice softer than someone his size 
should have been able to produce. "I think she wanted some peace."
"How do you know what the hell she wanted?" Paul pushed away from the bar, 
sending the stool tumbling backward. "She was up there dead all night?" Turning, 
he ran his hands through his hair, his eyes flicking to the ground, then the 
ceiling, and then back to the ground again. "Jesus. Jesus. I've got to see her."
"I don't think that would be such a good idea, Paul. I don't think--"
Crouch had come to the other side of the bar, but never got to finish his 
sentence as Paul stormed through the inner door.
Simon could hear his feet pounding against the ancient stairs and exhaustion 
flooded through his body. "I'll go up after him."
Simon had taken a couple of steps forward when a gentle hand stopped him. Alice 
Moore still looked somewhat like a wraith, her thin body frail and fragile, but 
her eyes had regained some strength. "No. No, I'll go. I've known him since he 
was just a boy. I can look after him better than you. You get a drink for now." 
She squeezed his hand lightly. "This isn't your fight, is it? I'm sorry you've 
had to meet us like this. This is a good community, really it is."
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Simon smiled. "You're preaching to the converted, Alice."
Reaching up on her tiptoes, Alice brushed his cheek with a feathery kiss before 
tapping him gently on the arm as she moved away to go after Paul. Watching her 
go, Simon felt strangely abandoned, as if he had slowly been cut loose from 
everyone that he knew in this village. He may only have known Mary since the 
start of this insane few days, but the shock that she was dead, that she had 
killed herself, resonated inside him. Mary gone. Alex missing.
"Here you go, son. You look like you could use it." Crouch handed him a glass of 
what looked like brandy, and then clinked it against one of his own. "I know I 
need one." Both men had barely raised the drink to their lips before a soft 
voice cut through their thoughts.
"Um, someone better come and have a look at this."
Looking up from his glass, Simon didn't recognize the young woman who had 
spoken; she was just a tired and shell-shocked stranger, like the others that 
surrounded him. At the moment, though, he felt more closely bonded to these 
people than to any friends he had back in London.
Other people drifted toward the window, hauling their stiff joints out of their 
chairs, young and old moving slowly, stilted, bodies creaking from tense 
inactivity. Watching them as they approached the glass, Simon was reminded of 
zombies in some old 60s Hammer horror film.
Looking at the mix of old and young, all drained and pale with clothes untidy 
and crumpled, he couldn't see James Partridge and Tom Tucker. After 
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being in the wood himself, Simon knew it was unlikely they'd made it out to 
another village, and he wondered what had happened to them. Maybe they'd headed 
to Tom's parents' farm like he and Paul had, and maybe after the discovery of 
their corpses Tom hadn't had the energy to head back to the pub. In some ways, 
he hoped that was the case. It seemed the better option than thinking of the two 
grown men stumbling around lost in the woods being taunted by strange ghosts of 
children. Surely if they were dead their bodies would have been presented to the 
rest in some way or another. It seemed to Simon that Melanie liked her work to 
have an audience.
Each person gasped as they reached the window, staring silently, faces 
reanimated, even if their bodies were still. Taking one more sip of the fiery 
liquid, Simon reluctantly put his glass down and followed Crouch over to where 
there was still a gap through which he could see out.
"Bloody hell." Crouch's mouth fell open. "What the hell is that?"
Simon stared out beyond the sheet of rain falling on the road that divided the 
pub and the wood to what was holding the attention of the village residents. 
Even though he had seen it before, he still felt his eyes widen as they were 
drawn in by the crackling blue light that danced across the tips of the trees, 
twisting through the branches like mad Christmas tree lights, chasing each other 
in a never ending loop.
"What is that?" Whoever had spoken didn't turn from the window, still caught in 
a moment of wonder.
"It is what Paul and I saw in the woods last night. It stopped us from getting 
out." When they'd returned the
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previous night, soaking and exhausted, Simon and Paul had shared the story of 
what they'd found at the Tucker farm and the events in the woods with the few 
people that were still awake, but some were dozing and some had focused only on 
the awful news of the deaths before retiring to grieve in quiet corners with 
their own families. The reality of the blue electricity sparkling in front of 
them was far more mesmerizing than when it had belonged in the ramblings of two 
men in shock.
"It looks like this time the point is to keep us from getting back into the 
woods. It seems that whatever's going on in there, we're not welcome."
"What do you think is happening?"
"I don't know. Some kind of showdown maybe. Alex is in there."
A little boy, his nose not much above the roughly painted ledge, pointed over to 
his left. "What's that, Mummy? What's that little boy doing over there in the 
rain?"
Following the boy's finger, Simon saw a very young child, maybe five or six, 
emerging from behind a tree lit up with the blue sparkling fire. He came into 
view but didn't move any further, instead just standing and staring at the pub. 
A few seconds later, another child appeared, this time a slightly older little 
girl, swinging out from around the sodden bark of an oak about ten yards farther 
on and coming to a halt when she too was facing the pub, still under the 
overhanging electrified branches above. Within seconds another came into view, 
then another, and then another, until there were thirteen children spread out 
along the edge of the wood opposite the pub, a mixture of girls and boys from
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about four to fifteen, their clothes running from the flares of the seventies to 
present-day fashions. None of them moved, simply staring in silence back at the 
tired and weary faces peering out from the pub's window.
"Yes," said Simon, thoughtfully. "I think we can definitely say we're not 
welcome in the woods today."
The woman whose son had pointed out the first child protectively gripped him by 
the shoulders and wheeled him around, leading him to a far table where he had 
been working on a crude drawing of a horse. It didn't take him long to settle 
back in and Simon was for a moment in awe of the child's capacity to adapt. 
Looking back at their new observers, he wondered how long it took for them to 
adapt to whatever existence they had now. A year? Ten? Twenty?
"Who are they?" Crouch's breathless question seemed to speak for them all.
Simon stared out, straining his tired eyes to make out significant features. "I 
think they're lost children." He wasn't sure what he felt more, fear of them or 
pity for them.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at them. Really look at them. I'm sure you'll recognize one or two from 
national papers and television appeals. Even twenty years ago that kind of news 
would have been big down here. Just look at them properly."
For a moment or two no one spoke and then a female voice gasped. "Oh, my god, 
but it can't be." Her hand raised up to the glass. "That boy... the third one 
along ... He looks just like that Colin Brade that went missing ... must be ten 
years ago." Her voice rose slightly. "That is him, that's what he was wearing, 
I'm
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sure it is. I remember 'cause he was the same age as my little sister. ..." Her 
voice was a blend of awe and disbelief. Simon knew how she felt; he'd gone 
through the same when he realized he'd seen Alan Harrison playing in the village 
streets. It was that LSD moment again, and he wasn't sure he was ever going to 
shake it off.
A murmur of energy was running through the small crowd, some scoffing at the 
suggestion outright, despite the blue light, despite the deaths, and despite the 
evidence in front of their eyes, others pushing their faces closer to the glass, 
nodding as their breath steamed it up, blocking their view.
A different voice piped through above the general hubbub. "And that girl's 
Maggie Ray! That one there, near the end. Jesus ... Jesus ..."
For the next ten minutes the noise levels climbed high, the villagers reanimated 
as they argued and debated the identity of each of the silently watching 
children. Some remained anonymous, leaving Simon wondering sadly just who had 
lost them and why no one had fought harder to find them, but most were 
identified nearly positively from images consigned long ago to memory and now 
dredged up. Looking out the window, Crouch and he the only people not speaking, 
Simon thought he might feel more sorry for the children if they weren't smiling 
so unpleasantly. So inhumanely. Teeth glistening. Occasionally, he was sure they 
glanced sideways to each other as if confirming their part in a secret joke. An 
involuntary shiver slid down his spine. What are you doing in there Alex? How 
can you possibly be able to do anything against this? His heart clenched and he 
forced it to relax. But she's still alive. She may be in there, but she's still 
alive.
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Around him the identity of another child was confirmed by majority decision and 
then one question dug into his ears, slicing through the excitement.
"But how can this be? How can they be here?"
The words silenced the room, and Simon thought about Paul upstairs, and poor 
dead Mary, and Melanie Parr and everything he'd seen since the madness had 
descended.
"That's easy." He spoke softly, to himself and to all of them. "The Catcher Man 
took them."
Silence fell so heavily that Simon could almost see it settling like dust across 
the old pub.
"What can we do?" Crouch's words were hollow, as if he knew the answer before it 
came.
"Nothing. Just wait. That's all we can do."
The huddle of people barely moved, just occasionally fetching a chair or 
barstool before continuing their vigil. After a while, Paul and Alice came 
downstairs, eyes red from crying but calmed, and joined them in the wait.
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Chapter Thirty-two
As she and Callum walked side by side through the wood, her stride steady, Alex 
could hear the rustle of movement in the trees around her, the sounds keeping up 
with them but maintaining a slight distance. The noise was tentative and 
hesitant, as if there had been a shift in the balance of power between her and 
the children.
"Why don't they just come out?"
"I think they're afraid of you. They're like me. They're not the ones gone bad. 
Melanie's sent those to the edge of the wood." He smiled. "I don't think she 
knows you're here."
"I wouldn't be so sure. Alan Harrison and that girl ran off pretty fast." The 
thought of the encounter with that little boy unsettled her. She hadn't felt the 
same since she'd grabbed him. It wasn't like the cancer pain, but deep in her 
core she could feel a cold space, as if someone had cut her open and then sewed 
her back up with a lump of ice left inside. And there was tingling
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in her hands like painless pins and needles. Maybe it had started when Callum 
had showed her what happened to him, but after the Alan incident she had felt 
the change. Something about it frightened her and she just wanted to find the 
children and get back to her own life, or at least what was left of it. While 
she still could.
A branch cracked loudly behind the trees to her left and she stopped walking. 
"Why don't you just come out?" She was surprised at how strong her voice sounded 
as she called out. Until now her words had seemed flat in the in between, as 
Callum's had in the bathroom. This time they were strong and resonant. "I'm not 
going to hurt you."
For a second nothing happened, and then, almost shyly, Alan Harrison was the 
first to emerge from behind a tree. The viciousness in his face was gone and he 
looked at her with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Following his lead came the 
girl in the tunic, her eyes still a little suspicious, and then five or six 
others emerged. A couple of the smaller ones quietly whispered to each other, 
their eyes fixed on Alex. She stared at Alan Harrison and the girl who held his 
hand. So that's why Melanie didn't know she was here yet. The children hadn't 
told her.
"Alan says you can help us." The girl in the tunic dress retained some of her 
defiance, and Alex wondered if it was some of that spirit that had led her to 
whatever situation had brought her there. "But you have to hurry. She's going to 
do it now. She's going to push one of them into the ravine."
Nodding at her, not needing to ask who she was, Alex turned, and with the 
children in tow like the pied
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piper, she moved up the bank, strong legs climbing. Her heart and head were 
pounding. How did they think she could help them? She couldn't, of that she was 
sure. Behind her, she could hear excited muttering. How disappointed would they 
be when they found out they were mistaken? That she was just like them, in 
limbo, somewhere between life and death, no real use to anyone? What would they 
do when they realized that? Still, she thought, glancing down at her mother's 
dress and taking a kind of comfort from it, she'd think about that later. For 
now, she had Melanie to deal with.
It could have been minutes or hours later when the strange group finally reached 
the high ground that led to the clearing. Alex had the strange feeling that it 
had been both, and her brain accepted that paradox. The whole of the in between 
was a paradox. Alive and dead. Real and unreal. All one and the same in between.
As the trees thinned, the children behind her fell back slightly, finding places 
to hide where they could peer round the safe bark and watch the clearing without 
having to cross into the arena. The rain pattered hard through the trees but at 
the edge the wind was barely a breeze. Not that it really mattered. Alex's skin 
was soaked from the inside out. It had been the whole time she'd been there, 
however long that was.
When Alex stepped into the open, only Callum, Alan, and the tunic girl came with 
her. For a moment, she just stared, feeling the rainwater falling from the 
leaves above and trickling down her skin. The air was still in the clearing, the 
storm paused, but it smelled rotten and sweet, like the breath of an old man 
who'd been dying for a long time. Around them she could 
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almost hear the drip of the water held back in the woods, away from its maker. 
To her left, Peter was tied to a tree, his yellow coat in a heap by his feet, 
and she could see he had been crying, but now he was just staring at her as if 
he couldn't believe his eyes. Slowly, Alex raised one finger to her lips to keep 
him quiet.
On the other side of the clearing, next to the ledge by the river, lay a fallen 
log, gnarled, thick, and rotten, and on it, his head in his hands, sat the 
Catcher Man. Blue veins shone through the pale skin of his skull, and a thick 
network of crisscrosses ran up his neck where it emerged from the black collar 
of his coat. She was sure the veins hadn't been visible when she'd seen him 
crouching by Alan Harrison's broken body. The hands that held that huge head 
seemed too weak to do so. You're dying. The thought hit Alex like a punch in the 
face. She's draining you.
In the space between Alex and the Catcher Man, oblivious to her arrival, Melanie 
and two boys were dragging Laura toward the edge of the ravine. The crying girl 
was pulling back so hard that her bottom was almost on the ground, but still 
they dragged her forward. Melanie was laughing. "You can jump or we'll push you, 
it's up to you."
Laura shrieked as the edge came a foot closer. The two boys held onto her arms 
and Melanie grabbed a fistful of Laura's hair and tugged hard on it. "You're 
just like your mother, a scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat!"
It seemed to Alex that the madness shone out from the long-dead girl; what had 
been a seed of insanity in the child had grown out of all proportion in this 
strange place, fed by the power she'd drained from the creature on the log. This 
part of the wood was special;
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Alex could feel the magical energy thrumming through the soles of her feet and 
this was the place where Melanie had been taken. Maybe that's what had given her 
the edge over the other children. Or maybe it was just her inherent insanity 
that gave her more manipulative strength.
Alex sighed, the small lump of cold in her core tugging at her, and despite the 
dead air she felt her hair lifting with the breeze, the tingle running from her 
hands all the way up her arms with some dread power.
The children had changed her and she wasn't sure it was a good thing, but for 
now, she just had to use whatever those changes had brought. And despite the 
cold and the tingling, she knew what had to be done.
"You need to stop this!" The trees around her shook as she shouted and even the 
three children with her stepped back slightly.
Nearly at the edge of the ravine, Melanie froze and looked up, her expression 
one of total madness and fury under the perfect blond curls. It was the face of 
someone much older than ten, staring out from smooth cherubic cheeks. "What are 
you doing here?" She stabbed a finger at Alex. "You can't be here! I didn't 
bring you here!" The words came out with a torrent of spit, her anger flying out 
of her.
The two boys holding Laura hesitated for a second, shocked by the combination of 
the new arrival and Melanie's outburst, and the girl took advantage of the 
moment, tearing herself free with a grunt and running to Alex's side.
"I said you have to stop this!" Alex called the words out again, louder this 
time, and Laura flinched, covering her ears.
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Melanie laughed, running to the tree and tugging at the rope around Peter. "You 
can't make me! You don't belong here! You can't stop me!" Her eyes shone 
manically. "I don't know how you got here, but you'll never go back. I won't let 
you!" Her fingers pulled at the ropes around the little boy. "I was going to let 
him go. Not now!" Despite her protestations, there was a hot overeagerness in 
her voice and movement that hinted at desperation. Things were happening that 
were out of her control, that she didn't understand, and she didn't like it.
The two boys that had been helping Melanie stared at Alex and then slowly pulled 
back, away from the little girl with only one red shoe on. They'd realized 
something that Melanie hadn't. Alex wasn't talking to her. She was talking to 
the Catcher Man.
Slowly, he raised his head out of his hands. "I knew you were coming."
This time, although Alex felt the power of his words trembling her insides, her 
ears didn't hurt. She nodded to him. "You have to stop this."
He shrugged and for an instant the land underneath them rippled with his 
movement. "I don't know how."
Alex stepped forward, and in the one move she had crossed the clearing and was 
standing in front of him. Cupping his cold heavy head with her hands, she lifted 
his chin and gazed into his black eyes. For a moment she glimpsed the worlds 
beyond worlds within him, the faces of the children layered in his head, and the 
awful exhausting tiredness; then she pulled back, knowing that if she went all 
the way inside, she would never find her way out.
She smiled. "I do."
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Behind her, Melanie was letting out a tirade of insuits as she tried to grip the 
wriggling toddler, feeling her plans slip through her fingers with him, and Alex 
turned to face her. Across the clearing, watching with the others, her 
life-brightness standing out, Laura gasped. "Alex, your eyes... your eyes are 
black...," but Alex raised her hand to silence her. Not now. No distractions 
now. My eyes are black, how can my eyes be black? His eyes are black. ... She 
pushed the thought away and looked down at the Catcher Man.
"You have to take the choice back."
From behind the trees, Alex could hear the hushed breath of whispers running 
through the children. Take the choice back. He can take the choice back.
The Catcher Man was staring at her, and inside she felt another small part of 
core turn into nothing and freeze. In her peripheral vision, she could make out 
Melanie pulling little Peter toward the edge. Time ticked loudly, buzzing in her 
head. In the forest around them the storm fiercely howled as the Catcher Man 
tried to reconcile what she had said with his acceptance of how things should 
be, that the choice was given, not taken back, all those time lines playing out 
against the dark backdrop of his eyes, Alex watching them like a silent movie.
Reaching down, she took one of his hands, ignoring the electricity as his 
tingling skin met hers, and pulled him to his feet. "You have to take the choice 
back. And you have to do it now. While you still can." She wasn't even sure 
she'd spoken the words out loud or whether they'd run down through her 
fingertips and into his. "The choice is yours. Not hers. Take it back."
His fingers squeezed hers for a moment and she felt
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it in the muscles of her ribs, contracting them, forcing all the breath out of 
her, until he let go of her hand and pulled himself up tall. He turned to face 
the clearing.
"Melanie." The word was nothing more than a whisper, but as it spilled out of 
him, everything around them stopped. Peter froze, his body twisted in its 
struggle, half upright, half tumbling to the floor. Looking at the edge of the 
clearing behind her, Alex could make out tiny drops of rain, paused in their 
journey from the leaves to the sodden forest floor. Across from her, Laura's 
face was still pulled wide in an expression of shocked concern, staring back at 
Alex, unblinking. Behind the trees, small pale faces peered out like statues, 
stuck in a moment they were leaving behind.
Nothing moved, nothing was sentient except for her, the Catcher Man, and the 
girl still struggling to move Peter from his stuck position. Giving up, she let 
go of his arm and stamped her foot. "You bitch! You fucking bitch!" Her shriek 
cut through the silence. "You shouldn't even fucking be here! This is my place! 
My place!" Howling, she launched herself full pelt across the clearing, small 
hands raised to attack Alex.
"No, Melanie. This is my place." The Catcher Man's words were only a whisper, 
but they dug into Alex's head, making her cry out and cover her ears, crouching 
onto the ground. When she took her hands away, there was blood on her fingers. 
What is this place doing to me? What is it doing to me? Looking upward, trying 
to ignore the throb of her burst eardrum, she watched the pale hand rise 
sharply, its palm facing toward the running girl, blue fire running up and down 
the sleeve of that long leather coat.
Everything changed all at once. Melanie was thrown
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up in the air, the scream knocked out of her with the shock, falling awkwardly 
backwards, and her outstretched arms could do nothing to stop her landing in a 
ghostly version of herself, sitting on the clearing and putting on her shoes. 
Peter's whole form shimmered and paled, as if he were there and not there, as 
Alex guessed was the case for them all as past and present collided. The little 
boy unfroze, first looking as if he would run toward Alex, and then turning to 
run to Laura and the other pale, awoken children on the far side. Do I look that 
frightening? My eyes are black and my ears are bleeding. What else has changed?
Focusing on the buckle of her first red sandal, Melanie was oblivious to them, 
locked back in the past, when she was still alive and breathing, the in between 
having not yet happened to her. She must have heard something, because her head 
raised and tilted slightly, the second shoe forgotten.
Only hearing the roar of damage from inside her ear, Alex watched the edge of 
the clearing, knowing what was coming next. A few seconds later, the women 
emerged, transluscent. Alex gazed at their ghostly forms in wonder. They were 
the women she knew and yet not. Even in the green gloom, looking at their 
flickering outlines she could see the differences. Enid Tucker's waist was still 
slim, her shape almost hourglass rather than thick-waisted and matronly as she 
had been in all the time Alex had known her. Leaving the second shoe on the 
ground, Melanie pulled herself to her feet, smug smile faltering.
Another woman, tall and willowy--Kay's mum, that's Kays mum standing next to 
Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary with no gray hair--bent to the ground, her eyes
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firmly focused on the child, and picked up a solid twig. Rain had started to 
fall in the past, fall heavily, and the clothes of the women were sticking to 
their skin as they moved toward the little girl. They were speaking but Alex 
couldn't hear the words. The pain in her ears was receding, but the deafness 
remained. Not that she needed to hear what they were saying. She'd heard it 
before, back in the real world, poured out of Mary's soul.
The first branch slapped against Melanie's leg and she jumped slightly, backing 
away, as the other women circled. The women were glowing now, almost radiant in 
their attack, their vengeance all they could see, all they wanted. They couldn't 
see that with every taunt, every jab of the stick, Melanie stepped one foot 
closer to the ravine, which only seconds ago and thirty years in the future, the 
little girl would be dragging Laura and then Peter toward. Alex's heart ached 
for the strong and vital women reenacting the past in front of her. Every poke 
of their twigs was leading them to their own destruction and the destruction of 
those they were doing this to protect. Staring at the scene, Alex wondered who 
was most insane, the pack of women, mad pagans in the rain, or the girl, her own 
composure gone, her face terrified as she slowly backed away.
And then she took that final step backward, the fear on her face changing to 
confusion, and then terror as she realized that there was no solid ground behind 
her, just crumbling mud and then empty space. Her arms flailed forward, 
desperately trying to regain some balance as she tipped backwards, and then she 
fell. Disappeared down the ravine.
The temporary insanity dropped away from the
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women as if washed off by the rain. They stared aghast, hands raised to mouths 
and hair, as the moment sank in. Without thinking, as one, they released their 
twigs and branches.
Mary was the first to kneel carefully at the edge and call down. Kay's mum 
joined her, their faces intent as they shouted things Alex couldn't hear down to 
the little girl. Enid Tucker was pacing the clearing, wringing her hands and 
muttering to herself. Mary and Charlotte Keeler pulled themselves to their feet, 
their eyes shaking with desperation as they shouted at each other. Eventually, 
something was agreed--we need to go and get a rope, we'll be back soon, 
everything will be fine, we'll be no time at all--and with Edith dragging Mary, 
they disappeared offstage, swallowed into the woods of the past. Mary's one look 
back confirmed what she had told them in the pub; what had haunted her all her 
life: That she knew they weren't going to get back in time. And that she'd be 
hearing that desperate plea for the rest of her life.
The clearing empty, Alex stared at the edge of the ravine. What now? Did they 
just have to wait for her to die? Thoughts of Callum in that cellar, and Alan 
Harrison lying broken on the pavement filled her head. All their fear. How 
afraid was Melanie now? She glanced up at the Catcher Man beside her, his face 
impassive, and wondered how this was affecting him, or if it was affecting him 
at all. Unsure of whether she was doing it for herself or for him, she slipped 
her hand into his. This time the electricity seemed warm, not shocking, but she 
gasped as the sounds flooded her head. She could hear, she could hear Melanie's 
screams--I can't move my legs, I can't feel them! Don't leave me, please
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don't leave me!--bursting into her very core. The terror in them was awful. How 
could the women have left her there? How could Mary have left her there?
The Catcher Man must have felt her thoughts, because he turned to her. His mouth 
didn't move. "I can make it stop. I can give her the choice."
Alex stared at him. He was in her head and she in his. "Is this how it is for 
you? Every time? Is this what you feel?"
He shrugged, "Only until they make the choice. And then it stops."
The idea of this filling his head constantly made her stomach turn. "Surely that 
would be too much to bear. Surely it must drive you insane." Alex stared at him, 
uncomprehending of his existence, and she felt his confusion at her words.
"I don't understand insane. This is what is." He turned to the ravine. "I can 
make it stop. I can give her the choice."
Alex stared at him and then at the ravine. She thought of the girl's terror and 
pain, and she thought of the children stuck in between. She thought of her own 
cancer eating away at her. All of these things were worse than death. It was 
only fear that held them back.
"No," she whispered, and this time she saw the Catcher Man flinch beside her. 
"No more choices."
She squeezed his hand tight before releasing it, sucking his electric power into 
herself, adding to that which she knew had seeped into her already, changing 
her, and then shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was on the small ledge far below the clearing, 
sitting on the edge, her legs dangling over the side into the torrent of the 
rising
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river. She was almost level with the rocky outcrop now, Alex's dress floating on 
the surface. It was icy cold, but somehow, although she could feel it on her 
skin, it didn't make her shiver. She looked down at the twisted girl next to 
her. Her back was broken, her legs sticking out at nauseating angles. Melanie 
gazed up at Alex. "I can't move my legs. I can't feel them." Water lapped across 
the surface of the rock, and the little girl mewled. "They left me. They left 
me. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. I don't want to die. I 
can't die. ..."
Alex smiled at her, gently stroking the golden hair that had been muddied in the 
rain. "Shhh. Everyone can die. Everyone has to. It's not so very terrible a 
thing."
Melanie's lips were turning blue as the water rose. "I'm scared." The words were 
barely audible, but they cut into Alex.
"I know." Reaching down, she took Melanie's cold hand and squeezed it. "But you 
don't have to be scared on your own. I'm here. I'm with you." Allowing the power 
to do its work, she slipped right inside Melanie, filling her form.
The girl's fear almost overwhelmed her, almost pushed her out, but she absorbed 
it, caressing the child from the inside. See? I'm here with you. Give me your 
fear. Give me your pain. For a moment the girl stiffened against the presence in 
her mind and then relaxed, letting the other take from her, taking comfort in 
Alex's grip. For a while, the child and the woman were one and Alex saw her past 
and her present, all her badness and some good, and all the time she absorbed 
the awful blackness of that fear.
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She could feel the water against her cheek and her chin, Melanie's cheek and 
chin, and when the little girl struggled and panicked she soothed her.
We're going together. Trust me. Don't fight it.
But I'm so scared, I can't breathe.
I'm here, right here with you. I'm coming with you, can you feel me? Right in 
here with you?
Yes. Yes...
Alex could feel the water pouring into her lungs and she breathed it in for both 
of them. She was dominant here now, Melanie just the passenger, safe and warm 
inside.
Are you an angel?
The voice was soft and sweet and everything a child should be. Alex smiled. She 
could feel something happening to them, a lightheadedness, a distance between 
them and the water that filled them up. The clock was stopping.
Maybe something like that. Maybe I'm the angel of death. She smiled a little at 
the thought and Melanie giggled, the blackness that swallowed them almost 
comforting as Alex led them into it.
Suddenly the water was gone. Alex felt heat, a good heat pour through them and a 
strange popping sensation inside. They weren't breathing anymore. Opening her 
eyes, their eyes, she gazed into the bright white light. The ledge was gone. The 
ravine was gone. There was nothing but warmth and light surrounding them like a 
blanket made from love, pure love, uninterrupted by human greed and jealousy. 
Eager and excited, Melanie moved, wriggled away inside, and suddenly they were 
separate, somewhere and nowhere, in a different kind of in between.
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What do we do now ?
Alex smiled at the girl, her hair bright, one shoe on, one shoe off. Well, if 
you believe the stories, then I think we're supposed to walk into the light.
It's beautiful.
Beside her, the little girl glowed.
And so are you.
She watched as Melanie ran into whatever was causing the radiance ahead, and 
still smiling, she took a step to follow her.
It was like hitting a brick wall, and as the light turned to blackness, the 
blackness of rushing water, Alex felt herself being pulled back.
What is happening, what is happening? She tried to call out to Melanie to wait, 
for someone to help her, but the water was filling her lungs as she lay on the 
ledge, choking her, and she couldn't move her legs, and the blackness and the 
panic and the fear were filling her up and all she wanted was to breathe but she 
was choking, drowning, and it was so terrible and she was so terrified. 
Panicked, she fought and fought, clutching at life until the cold blackness, no 
comfort in it, overwhelmed her.
When she opened her eyes, she was back in the clearing, gasping for lungfuls of 
the stagnant in between air, the children and the Catcher Man all staring at 
her. She looked at him, her lungs raw, but the pain fading fast. The in between. 
Things are different here. In seconds, her breathing was normal. "What the fuck 
happened there?"
The Catcher Man seemed slightly diminished, thinner in the gloom. He was looking 
at her with interest. "You took her death. You took her death for her."
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"But why didn't I die too? I was there, I saw the light. ..."
He tilted his head slightly, bemused at her reaction. "But you're in between. 
You are the in between now. Look." Reaching forward, he lifted her hand so that 
their palms were touching, then tilted them toward him and then her, making both 
sides visible. She stared. His hand was smooth and soft, and thick blue lines, 
like the veins that covered his skull, were rippling under the surface of hers, 
fading at the wrist where the skin returned to normal, and his became patterned. 
Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ. "What is it? What's happening to me?"
"Things are changing." His black eyes were expressionless. "I'm ending. You're 
beginning."
"I don't understand."
He looked at the children, who were edging toward them and sighed. This time the 
trees barely trembled. "You will."
The girl with the tunic reached them first, and behind her Alan Harrison and 
then the two boys who had been helping Melanie. They all stared at her, their 
eyes full of wonder.
"My name's Annie." The girl with the tunic was almost shy, one hand twisting 
into the other. "We saw... we saw what happened when you were with Melanie. We 
saw the light. We heard her laughing."
Alan Harrison slipped his hand into the girl's. Alex wondered how long had they 
been there together. A marriage-length of time spent in this purgatory. No 
growing up. Nothing but stagnating in a storm.
"It was a good laugh. She didn't sound like that before. We want you to do it 
for us." The boy's baseball
309 
cap made him look so young as his eyes flitted from Alex to the Catcher Man and 
back again. "We want you to put us back. Take the choice back."
Alex stared, the memory of Melanie's drowning too raw and real and terrible. How 
could she face the beauty of that light again, knowing that she was going to be 
pulled back to relive the death she saved them from? Didn't they realize what 
they were asking of her? How many of them were there? Twenty? Thirty?
Across the clearing she could see Laura and Peter waiting for her to take them 
home, to end this nightmare, little Callum standing alongside, pale and faded 
beside their bright colors. Her heart ached and she looked back at the pleading 
children in front of her. Of course they didn't realize what they were asking of 
her. They were just children. Children who'd been afraid for a long, long time.
Looking back up at the Catcher Man, she let out a sigh of her own and watched 
his skin ripple with it.
"We have to do this together. You have to take the choice back before I can do 
anything."
He nodded and turned to face the girl in the tunic. "Annie."
And then the world froze again.
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310
311 
Chapter Thirty-three
Something was happening in the storm. They could all see it, peering out of the 
pub windows and into the mist that was settling in waves across the cobbled 
road. Thunder and rain still raged in the sky, but flashes of light broke 
through, the heat from the brightness turning the rain around it into clouds of 
steam.
"What is that?" Simon could feel Paul's warm, stale breath brush against his 
cheek as he spoke. They'd all gathered in closely, bodies touching gently. It 
had been a subconscious movement, strangers seeking comfort from the heat and 
proximity of others, the windows and old door seeming little protection against 
the strangeness outside.
"I don't know." Another burst of brightness filled a patch of sky above some 
distant trees. Even from where they stood the purity of it hurt the back of 
Simon's eyes, leaving pink and purple spots behind when he shut them. "But I do 
know that it's coming up from the ground rather than down from the sky."
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Paul paused, and watched. "Are you sure? Look again."
Simon tried, but had to turn away. "It's hurting my eyes."
"It's not coming from the ground or the sky. It's coming from both at once. Or 
somewhere in the middle. Whatever it is, it's not natural."
"I don't know about that." Alice Moore's voice was like a butterfly's wings. 
"It's beautiful. So beautiful. I think something that beautiful must be 
natural."
"Look! Look at the woods." Crouch's voice made them jump.
"We are looking at them." Simon turned. "What's the matter?"
"Don't look at the sky. Look at the woods. Look. The children are going."
The older man was right. Where the children had been evenly spaced, regimented 
in their surly observation of the living, there were now gaps, gaps that were 
getting bigger as each of the watchers turned and slid into the trees, some 
taking others hands and arms, just like normal children. Just like living 
children.
"Where are they going?" Paul squeezed Simon's arm.
"I don't know. It must have something to do with those lights."
"Do you think it has something to do with Alex?"
Thinking of her, Simon paused, his breath hitching against his heart. "I don't 
know, but it wouldn't surprise me. Nothing about your cousin would surprise me."
"Shall we go after them?"
The children had all gone within the space of a minute or two, but staring out 
at the storm, Simon shook his head. "We can't. That blue electricity is still 
all over the trees. We won't get past it."
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Another flash of light burst through the sky.
"Do you think that maybe the storm is passing? Maybe it's nearly over?" Paul 
sounded like a child himself.
"I hope so, mate. I hope so." It was what would be left of them at the end of 
the storm that worried him.
314 
314
315 
Chapter Thirty-four
There was a time, she wasn't sure when, time having lost all meaning to her, 
when she thought that the deaths were going to drive her mad. She was sure they 
would. She hoped they would; anything for some relief. Going into the children 
was bearable, she could live with it, or exist with it; it was a good feeling 
and it stopped the screaming and the fear in her head and the Catcher Man's. The 
real agony came from facing that beautiful light and feeling its potential 
touching her soul, oh so briefly, before she was sucked back to take each death 
isolated and alone.
Her soul aged each time the Catcher Man called a child's name, sending her back 
into their pasts to soothe them in their departure. It was ironic how much she 
had feared death. She could see it now all too clearly. Death was beautiful. 
Purifying. Comforting. It was the dying that was terrible. Terrible beyond her 
comprehension. Perhaps that was the cost for the beauty of death. The yin and 
the yang. Perhaps it was
316 
in the dying that hell existed, the awfulness of it cleansing sins and reducing 
each person to the essence of everything they could be. She thought she had felt 
pain and fear with her cancer, but it was nothing compared to this, coming out 
of each child's terror curled up on the ground, gasping for breath, for life, 
and all the time aching for the light, to follow the children into its comfort.
It had been an eon or maybe a second or maybe a length of time not quantifiable 
by normal measures, in between time, a paradox only understood without words, 
but when she finally opened her disoriented, panicking eyes, her mouth sucking 
at the filthy air, her whole body desperately shaking off the previous torment, 
the in between was almost empty of inhabitants. Pulling her body upright, 
readjusting to its proportions, she could feel its void reflected inside her. 
The cold that had filled a tiny part of her such a short time ago now ran from 
the pit of her belly up to the back of her throat, creating a hollowness in her, 
filled with the memories of the deaths.
She turned her head slowly, expecting to see the looming bulk of the Catcher 
Man, impassive at her side, ready to call the next child, the only in between 
child left, little Callum, who was staring at her, one hand in Laura's, one in 
Peter's. She didn't like the way they were looking at her. As if she were a 
stranger. And she didn't like the way that looking at Laura and Peter made her 
eyes hurt, their brightness too much to bear. Her eyes sought out the Catcher 
Man and they found him curled up on the clearing ground, his coat now way too 
large for his form, his presence fragile like a jarring hologram, as if he was 
almost not in between. He
317 
was almost nowhere. She stared at him with the same horror with which the 
children were looking at her.
Her mouth felt as if she had been sucking on dry ice, and she wondered if it 
would ever feel moist again. Looking down at her arms, at the blue veins which 
ran all the way along them now, the nails at her fingertips translucent black as 
if gateways to the emptiness inside and around, sorrow overwhelmed her as the 
reality of what had happened sunk in. What was it he had said, so calmly, so 
devoid of emotion? I'm ending. You're beginning. Why hadn't she thought harder 
about it?
The children were coming toward them, and she knew there wasn't much time. 
Sitting beside him, her mother's dress spreading out around them on the damp 
ground, she leaned forward and held his now delicate hand once again. His 
existence fluttered inside her in its death throes.
I think I understand now. She said the words without speaking, and his eyes 
flickered open, the blackness of his matching hers as they locked gazes.
I don't get to go into the light, do I?
His lids slipped down for a second, then opened again.
I don't get to go home and I don't get to die.
Her heart crumbled with the memory of the light. So much understanding tore at 
her soul that she screamed inside, making them both flinch. I have to stay here 
alone, don't I? Stay here alone and take the deaths. Already, in the distance of 
her mind she could hear terrified voices calling out to her. And she had a 
feeling that when he had gone it would get worse. Much worse.
318 
He didn't answer; not silent from any sense of pity, that was an emotion he 
didn't understand--she knew that he was saving the last of his strength for 
Callum. For what they had to do for him. Three pairs of children's feet appeared 
cautiously in her range of vision and she looked up, smiling.
"Can we go home now, Alex?" Laura's voice was a whisper, her disbelief that Alex 
was still the same person clear in her voice, and Peter barely peered out from 
behind the girl's legs. I must look like a monster to him now. The stuff of 
myths and legends. The bogeyman. She tried to smile, but the expression felt 
uncomfortable on her tightened skin, the blue veins there not having the give in 
them for humanity.
"In a minute, sweetheart. We have to send Callum after the others first."
The little boy shook his head vehemently. "I don't want to go. I don't want to 
go back there. And I don't want to leave you here."
Inside her, Alex could feel the Catcher Man slipping out of existence. There 
were only minutes left, ticking away. His clock was almost unwound. Staring at 
the children, the ocean of sorrow inside her roared out her grief. Oh, how easy 
it would be to let the boy stay with her. To keep her company in the lonely 
forever that stretched out ahead. She looked into his young face and lied.
"But you're the last, Callum. And you know what that means, don't you?"
He shook his head, and she was pleased to see that he didn't look at her 
differently. Not like Laura and Peter. To him she was just the same as she had 
been
319 
when he'd took her hand in the bathroom, or held his finger across her lips in 
her bedroom.
"This time I get to come with you. We'll go into the light together and forever. 
Won't that be wonderful?" Tears that she was no longer able to cry flooded her 
insides as he smiled.
"Really? That's really what happens?" She nodded, and then his expression 
darkened. "But Mr. Wentworth will bury me in the cellar and leave me there. ..."
Reaching out one of her alien hands, she stroked his soft cheeks. "Trust me, 
Callum. None of that matters. Only getting to the light. That's where you should 
be. Where you belong." Her voice was all wrong, high- and low-pitched at the 
same time. The boy didn't notice.
"And you'll come with me? You promise?"
The universe shook inside, cracking her heart. "I promise."
For a moment he paused, looking at the empty storm that had held him for so 
long. He smiled, happily. "I think I'm ready."
Summoning the very last of his strength, the Catcher Man whispered the boy's 
name, and for the last time, the in between froze.
When she finally came to on the forest floor, her head resting on the empty coat 
that was all that was left of the Catcher Man, Alex knew she had left the worst 
behind her. Mr. Wentworth had not strangled Callum, but killed him slowly and 
brutally, and despite the receding pain, she knew in the cold core that was what 
was left of her soul a part of her would always be screaming from the death and 
humiliation she took for the boy.
320 
But that wasn't the worst part. In all its awful glory the dying wasn't what had 
broken her heart. No, her heart broke before she was dragged back from the edge 
of death. It shattered when he ran into the light. Ran into the light and left 
her without looking back. Not once.
Looking up at the live children, she sighed, causing the forest to tremble, and 
the incessant rain slithered down the trees.
"You have to go home now." Taking them by the hand, she wondered if her voice 
sounded as empty as her heart felt.
321 
Chapter Thirty-five
At the edge of the woods she releases them, pulling the blue fire back into 
herself, and it seems to her that they step through the walls of a bubble, out 
of the gloom of the in between and into the cobbled road of the village where 
the rain has finally stopped. Watching through the overhanging branches, she 
sees so many things, drinking it all in. The lights in the windows of the pub 
are bright, almost too bright for her black eyes to look at, and through them 
she can see figures moving, rushing out to greet the two children running toward 
the building.
She knows that the two missing men will soon come down from the Tucker's farm 
and they will have stories of their own to tell of children in the woods. They 
will sit by the comfort of their fires and tell their tales, tales of ghosts 
traveling in the storm and a night of murder and madness. One day, a blink of an 
eye in time away, Peter will be an old man, the only one left to remember, and 
after he is gone it will all become folklore, more country stories and secrets 
whispered at bedtime.
322 
Staring at it all, all the bright light and life, she wonders if it was like 
this for the Catcher Man when he began. Did he carry this sadness? Or was he 
saved from it by never being human? She wonders how long it will take for her 
humanity to fade. A century? A millennium?
Although it is still wet and cold in the wood, over the village the clouds are 
breaking, a burst of sunshine flooding through, highlighting the small crowd 
gathering the children to them. She sees Emma Granville holding the small boy 
up, smothering him with kisses, raising him above her head and laughing, as if 
he were a sacrifice to an ancient god.
Two men move away from the group, staring out toward the wood, and she drinks 
their image in as they call her name. Paul looks thinner and tired, and she 
knows that Mary is dead, and she knows that Simon will go back to London and 
slowly recover, maybe haunted by dreams of the past and of her, and of the tales 
Laura and Peter will tell of their adventure in the forest, but he'll be able to 
live with them. In the comfort of the concrete and glass city, he'll persuade 
himself that she is dead and gone, and he will learn to live with it.
Simon is starting to jog toward the bank of trees, and for a moment she just 
watches him and allows herself to think of what could have been, if only for the 
few months she had left when time was still important. The trees shake and above 
her thunder screams for her. She doesn't want to see how in the future, when he 
has recovered and married and had children of his own, and a storm breaks 
overhead, he will pause in what he is doing and allow himself to recall the 
bittersweet memory of her and their one night together.
She takes one long last look at life and love before
323 
turning her back on it, bare feet walking strongly on the forest floor, the long 
leather coat almost reaching the hem of her dead mother's dress. In her head the 
screams of the lost and dying children are becoming too painful to ignore, and 
accepting the legacy left to her, she gathers the storm and moves it on toward 
them, to their deaths and to their journeys into the light.
324 
Breeding Ground
Sarah Pinborough
Life was good for Matt and Chloe. They were in love and looking forward to their 
new baby. But what Chloe gives birth to isn't a baby. It isn't even human. It's 
an entirely new species that uses humans only for food--and as hosts for their 
young.
As Matt soon learns, though, he is not alone in his terror. Women all over town 
have begun to give birth to these hideous creatures, spidery nightmares that 
live to kill--and feed. As the infestation spreads and the countryside is 
reduced to a series of web-shrouded ghost towns, will the survivors find a way 
to fight back? Or is it only a matter of time before all of mankind is reduced 
to a ... Breeding Ground
Dorchester Publishing Co., P.O. Box 6640 Wayne, PA 19087-8640
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325 
THE
Freakshow
BRYAN SMITH
Once the Flaherty Brothers Traveling Carnivale and Freakshow rolls into Pleasant 
Hills, Tennessee, the quiet little town will never be the same. In fact, much of 
the town won't survive. At first glance the freakshow looks like so many 
others--lurid, run-down, decrepit. But this freakshow is definitely one of a 
kind. ...
The townspeople can't resist the lure of the tawdry spectacle. The main 
attractions are living nightmares, the acts center on torture and 
slaughter...and the stars of the show are the unsuspecting customers themselves.
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Sarah Pinborough was born in 1972
and lives in Stony Stratford, Milton Keynes, England, with her cats, Mr. Fing 
and Peter. When not writing, she teaches high school English.