didn’t blink. When he talked, it seemed to Tom that he did so in a trance. ‘It’s not like you see in films. It’s not like that at all. It’s all made from people. Lots of people. They’re all mixed up in it. Stuck together . . .’
Tom carried the boy back home. Soothingly, he reassured Owen that everything was alright. The boy, however, continued to stare back over Tom’s shoulder. He seemed to see something haunting the shadows.
‘It’s not like the one you see in the church window,’ Owen said, still speaking in that trance-like way; a chilling monotone. ‘It was going to hurt me . . . She called it away.’
‘Who called it away, Owen?’
At that moment the thunder let loose a monstrous bellow. The sound could have come from gigantic jaws. There was fury in the sound. A threat of violence and death.
Owen sagged in Tom’s arms and started sobbing. ‘I want my mother. Take me to my mother.’
Tom couldn’t do that. Owen’s mother had been found dead at Mull-Rigg Hall. All he could do was murmur that everything would be alright.
But would it? Tom Westonby felt as if a huge, dark pit was opening beneath his feet. Something was badly wrong here in this remote corner of Yorkshire. Something was rotten. And dangerous. Incredibly dangerous.
Tom managed to get Owen back into bed without waking his own parents. Then he sat in the chair beside Owen’s bed as the child bunched his fists in his sleep. All night long the boy muttered with a dark, fretful intensity about the monster that haunted his nightmares.
EIGHTEEN
T he rain came. Thunder growled in such a way that it sounded as if an angry dinosaur prowled the valley. Lightning had struck a tree on the village green. The intense heat transformed the oak into an ugly black skeleton. Floodwaters engulfed potato fields by the river. The rain came even harder. Huge drops exploded against the road. In Chester Kenyon’s workshop, the din of falling rain could have been angry fists beating against the roof.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Chester Kenyon stared at Tom Westonby as if his friend has suddenly stabbed a knife into his stomach.
‘Jesus, Tom, you are joking, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Nicola Bekk?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re seeing Nicola Bekk?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Jesus Christ, Tom. You idiot!’ Chester flung a hammer down on to the workbench, then ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes bulged as he stared at Tom. ‘Nicola Bekk’s retarded.’
‘Hey, take that back. Nicola’s a great girl.’
‘Tom, she’s got problems here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Learning difficulties. Backward. Retarded. Do you understand?’
Tom kicked aside a chair. ‘I thought we were friends. Truth is, I feel like punching you in your damn face.’
‘Oh my God. You’ve not had sex with her?’
‘None of your business.’ After the incident last night, when Owen had wandered off into the forest – sleep walking, he guessed – his nerves felt raw. His parents had said they would keep a close watch on Owen after Tom had explained what happened. They wondered if Owen’s grief over his mother’s sudden death had triggered frightening nightmares.
Right now, Tom needed to see a friendly face. Yet for some crazy reason Chester was making these disgusting accusations. Good grief, they were bizarre accusations at that.
Chester grabbed Tom by the elbow. When he spoke it was in a caring voice, though; he seemed deeply troubled. ‘Tell me you haven’t had sex with Nicola Bekk.’
Tom didn’t reply. The rain fell harder. The furious drumming on the roof became frenzied – it would be easy to imagine the weather itself was growing excited by the atmosphere of violence in the workshop. Thunder roared across the valley.
‘Tom. This is important. Have you had sex with that woman?’
‘Shit . . . I thought we were friends.’
‘Spit it out, Tom. Have you screwed her?’
‘No.’
Chester let out a yell of relief. ‘Thank
Tom carried the boy back home. Soothingly, he reassured Owen that everything was alright. The boy, however, continued to stare back over Tom’s shoulder. He seemed to see something haunting the shadows.
‘It’s not like the one you see in the church window,’ Owen said, still speaking in that trance-like way; a chilling monotone. ‘It was going to hurt me . . . She called it away.’
‘Who called it away, Owen?’
At that moment the thunder let loose a monstrous bellow. The sound could have come from gigantic jaws. There was fury in the sound. A threat of violence and death.
Owen sagged in Tom’s arms and started sobbing. ‘I want my mother. Take me to my mother.’
Tom couldn’t do that. Owen’s mother had been found dead at Mull-Rigg Hall. All he could do was murmur that everything would be alright.
But would it? Tom Westonby felt as if a huge, dark pit was opening beneath his feet. Something was badly wrong here in this remote corner of Yorkshire. Something was rotten. And dangerous. Incredibly dangerous.
Tom managed to get Owen back into bed without waking his own parents. Then he sat in the chair beside Owen’s bed as the child bunched his fists in his sleep. All night long the boy muttered with a dark, fretful intensity about the monster that haunted his nightmares.
EIGHTEEN
T he rain came. Thunder growled in such a way that it sounded as if an angry dinosaur prowled the valley. Lightning had struck a tree on the village green. The intense heat transformed the oak into an ugly black skeleton. Floodwaters engulfed potato fields by the river. The rain came even harder. Huge drops exploded against the road. In Chester Kenyon’s workshop, the din of falling rain could have been angry fists beating against the roof.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Chester Kenyon stared at Tom Westonby as if his friend has suddenly stabbed a knife into his stomach.
‘Jesus, Tom, you are joking, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Nicola Bekk?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re seeing Nicola Bekk?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Jesus Christ, Tom. You idiot!’ Chester flung a hammer down on to the workbench, then ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes bulged as he stared at Tom. ‘Nicola Bekk’s retarded.’
‘Hey, take that back. Nicola’s a great girl.’
‘Tom, she’s got problems here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Learning difficulties. Backward. Retarded. Do you understand?’
Tom kicked aside a chair. ‘I thought we were friends. Truth is, I feel like punching you in your damn face.’
‘Oh my God. You’ve not had sex with her?’
‘None of your business.’ After the incident last night, when Owen had wandered off into the forest – sleep walking, he guessed – his nerves felt raw. His parents had said they would keep a close watch on Owen after Tom had explained what happened. They wondered if Owen’s grief over his mother’s sudden death had triggered frightening nightmares.
Right now, Tom needed to see a friendly face. Yet for some crazy reason Chester was making these disgusting accusations. Good grief, they were bizarre accusations at that.
Chester grabbed Tom by the elbow. When he spoke it was in a caring voice, though; he seemed deeply troubled. ‘Tell me you haven’t had sex with Nicola Bekk.’
Tom didn’t reply. The rain fell harder. The furious drumming on the roof became frenzied – it would be easy to imagine the weather itself was growing excited by the atmosphere of violence in the workshop. Thunder roared across the valley.
‘Tom. This is important. Have you had sex with that woman?’
‘Shit . . . I thought we were friends.’
‘Spit it out, Tom. Have you screwed her?’
‘No.’
Chester let out a yell of relief. ‘Thank
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