Pig Island by Mo Hayder Page B

the thick green leaf cover. It was a much gentler slope than on the centre’s side, and it wasn’t long before the parched yellow land began to give way to a slatier rock and vegetation: first, patches of heather and plantain, then stubby grass and the occasional wild flower. We arrived suddenly at the fence—before we knew it, it was less than ten feet ahead of us and rose at least fifteen in height. At the top, peering down at us from the trees, was a pig’s head, a halo of flies circling it, like a stain in the air. Its eyes had been eaten away by decay and maggots, but the teeth were still there, big and bare, like polished bone. The smell that had drifted across the island the day before was stifling now. I cleared my throat and ran my tongue round my mouth. Malachi, oh, Malachi, I thought, is this where you get up to your little rituals, you mad old bastard?
    “Hmmm,” said Sovereign, brazenly, looking up into the trees inside the fence to where hazes of midges wafted among the trees. A weak breeze came off the sea and ruffled the branches. “You don’t suppose he’s put cameras inside the fence, do you?” She squatted down and craned her neck up at the tops of the trees, narrowing her eyes. “Hello, Malachi, you old bonehead. Come and give it to us. Show us your strap-on tail.” Beyond the fence the undergrowth was so thick that I couldn’t see more than a few feet—everything in there hung eerily still, like the heat of the day was trapped in the heavy leaves. There was no flicker of movement, just a low-level buzz of insect life deep in the trees that made me wonder about stagnant water.
    “I’ve never been this close,” she said, “not since he put the fence up. He might be dead for all we know, in the trees somewhere—decomposing.” She stopped. “Joe?”
    I didn’t answer. I had straightened, my chin up, staring intently over her shoulder.
    “What is it?”
    I put a finger to my mouth, my eyes locked on the enclosure, and slowly, disbelievingly, turned my head a bit to one side, wondering if I was seeing a trick of the light. Past the alarm tripwires, beyond the heavy-duty fence, something paler than its surroundings lay on the ground. It was the size and shape of a large snake, and the colour of weathered human skin. It seemed to emerge from the leafy shadow of a large tree-trunk. The hair all over my body stood up like a cat’s.
    ‘ Joe ?“ Sovereign was whispering. ’ He’s behind me, isn’t he ?”
    I blinked. “Yeah,” I whispered.
    “He’s watching.” She lowered her voice until it was almost inaudible. “Isn’t he?” She turned slowly and stared into the forest, to where the trees beyond the wire fence were silent and still, only the haze of insect life moving in patches through the shadows, while the strange piece of flesh lay inert on the ground. ‘ Oh ,“ she breathed. ’ Oh .”
    Silently I fumbled my camera out of the rucksack and crouched next to Sovereign, hastily fitting on the lens and pulling off the cover. Maybe flesh has a way of communicating its authenticity through channels and senses we don’t know anything about—because I was certain, I’d have put money on it, we were looking at something living. I raised the camera and was focusing when, suddenly, the tail gave a small twitch. Just like a cat. It twitched again, and next to me Sovereign leaped to her feet, breathing hard.
    ‘ Fuck fuck fuck ,“ she hissed. ’ Did you see that ?”
    Her voice alarmed the creature. The tail twitched again, then slid away into the trees and disappeared with a rustle, leaving nothing but leafy patches of shadow and sun.
    “Shit,” I said, lowering the camera and staring at the place where it had been, trying to make sense of the light and shade.
    Next to me Sovereign was backing away, whispering in a shaky voice, “What the fuck was it? What was it?”
    “Sssh!”
    “Joe, I want to go. Let’s go.” She grabbed at my T-shirt, trying to haul me to my feet.