Bone Jack (2 page)

The boy was exhausted. Ash could see that straight away. Beyond exhausted. Legs heavy. His head bobbing, breathing in quick wheezy gasps.

But he kept running.

Like he was running for his life.

His gaze met Ash’s as he passed but he didn’t stop, didn’t break his stumbling stride.

Still there was the rumble in the mountainside, stronger now. Ash crouched down low, waited with his breath catching in his throat, hoped whatever was coming up the path wouldn’t notice him hiding amidst the bracken and spiky clumps of gorse.

The boy was out of sight now.

Time crawled.

Then more boys appeared further down the mountain. First three or four, then dozens of them streaming into view. As with the first boy, there was something unearthly about them, as if they were tricks of the light rather than flesh and blood. Like him, they wore leggings, masks, thin leather boots strapped at the ankle. But their masks weren’t clay. Theirs were ragged things of painted, stiffened sackcloth, masks with eyeholes slashed into them and gaping mouths. Their pace was steady and relentless. They looked as if they could run all day. Soon they’d catch up with the fleeing boy and his race would be over.

Ash knew what they were. Their costumes were wrong, but these were hound boys and this was a Stag Chase. Except it couldn’t be. The Stag Chase was only held once a year and it wasn’t for another two weeks and then Ash was going to be the stag boy fleeing the hounds. Not this clay-daubed stranger.

The runners passed Ash as if he wasn’t there: ten, twenty, thirty and more of them.

A pack of hounds, running its prey to ground.

The stag boy didn’t stand a chance. They’d catch up with him on the ridge, perhaps even sooner.

Ash tensed, about to jump up and help him. Then he stopped. Their unearthliness unnerved him and there were too many of them anyway. And already they were almost out of sight, only the stragglers still visible as the path jackknifed its way up the mountain.

Then the last of them was gone.

Ash stood still, heart hammering, watching the spot where they’d vanished.

A shriek ripped through the silence. Part human, part animal.

The stag boy. It had to be. The hounds must have caught up with him by Stag’s Leap.

The blood drained from Ash’s face.

Something terrible was happening. He knew it in his bones, as surely as he knew night from day. No one screamed like that except from raw terror. This wasn’t just a race. This was dark, savage, murderous. A hunt, with the stag boy as its prey.

He went back to the path, ran a little way along it then scrambled up onto a swell of higher ground to get a better view. He shielded his eyes against the sun and scanned the upper slopes for the boy and the hounds.

They couldn’t have got further than that. There hadn’t been enough time.

There was no sign of them. Not a sound, not a movement.

They’d gone.

It was as if they’d never been there at all.

The storm clouds had vanished too, sucked back over the horizon. Instead there was the glaring white metal sky again, so bright it hurt his eyes.

A tiny movement further up the mountainside caught his attention. He shielded his eyes and squinted into the sunlight.

There was a girl standing on a boulder, watching him. Her hair was dark and wild. She wore a dress the dusty red of roadside poppies. He recognised her straight away: Callie Cullen, Mark’s younger sister.

Relief flooded through him at the sight of someone familiar. Suddenly everything seemed ordinary again. The impossible Stag Chase gone, the world settling back to its sensible self.

It struck him that Callie must have seen the running boys too, must have seen where they went.

‘Callie!’ he hollered. ‘Hey, Callie! Did you see those runners? Where did they go?’

If she heard him, she didn’t answer. She just stood there, watching him, motionless except for the breeze tugging at her dress and hair.

Ash shrugged his shoulders, gave up. Everything that had happened this morning was too weird for him. All he wanted now was to be back at home, in his own room where things made sense and he could shut the door, lose himself in a computer game, keep the world at arm’s length. And soon Dad would be home, maybe even today, and everything would be OK.

Nothing else mattered.

He set off at an unsteady trot, still shaky with adrenalin. His legs sloshed around as if they were full of water.

Heat shimmered on the mountainside, split the air, played tricks on his eyes. Faraway things seemed close, close things seemed further than they really were. And shadows raced alongside him, like the shadows of scudding clouds. Except there weren’t any clouds, not any more, just the white-hot sky stretching from horizon to horizon.

The shadows spooked him. He didn’t look back. Instead he ran harder, faster, and he didn’t stop until he reached home.

THREE

Mum was pottering around in the garden when he got back. Wearing her frayed straw hat, harvesting sweetcorn from plants as tall, slender and dishevelled-looking as she was. He waved at her through the kitchen window, watched her for a while.

Things getting back to normal, bit by bit. Just Dad missing.

He poured two glasses of orange juice and took them out into the garden.

Mum had been busy. A basket heaped with ears of sweetcorn stood at her feet.

‘Impressive crop, Mum,’ said Ash.

‘It’s about the only one that’s done well in this drought. So we’ll be having sweetcorn with every meal for the next month.’ She pushed a loose strand of her pale hair back under her hat and smiled at him. ‘Including breakfast.’

Ash pulled a face. ‘Bacon, eggs and sweetcorn? Gross. What’s wrong with the sweetcorn that comes in tins, anyway?’

‘And what’s wrong with eating pizza every day?’ She laughed and tidied his wind-wilded hair, the way she used to when he was small. He groaned a protest but he didn’t pull away.

She let him go. She sipped her juice, set the glass down next to the basket and twisted off another ear of corn. ‘Did you have a good run?’

Ash hesitated. He wanted to tell her about the bird flying into his face, about the stag boy being hunted down, how the running boys seemed to vanish into thin air, the freaky storm clouds, the shadows that had chased him. But when the words formed in his mind, it all sounded creepy and unreal, a mad dream best kept to himself.

She had enough to worry about anyway, with Dad still not back.

‘Yeah, it wasn’t bad,’ he said. ‘I went up to Stag’s Leap. I saw Callie Cullen up there.’

‘Callie?’ Mum stopped breaking the corn ears from their stalks and gave him her full attention. ‘Was Mark with her?’

‘No. It was just her.’

‘What in the world was she doing out there by herself? Did you talk to her?’

‘Yeah, but she wouldn’t talk to me.’

‘Why ever not?’ said Mum. ‘Those poor kids. You and Mark used to be such good friends. I wish you’d try again with him.’

‘I tried lots of times.’ His face grew hot. It wasn’t exactly a lie – he had made an effort after Mark’s dad hanged himself. But bad things seemed to collect around Mark after his dad died. Dark and violent things. When Mark pushed him away, Ash let himself be pushed and then time passed and things got awkward. These days they scarcely saw each other.

He couldn’t explain all that to Mum. She wouldn’t get it. She’d remind him that Mark had been his best friend, tell him not to be so superstitious and silly. There’d be disappointment in her eyes, in her voice.

He couldn’t stand that.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘Has Dad called yet?’

Stupid question. If he had called, she’d have told him by now.

‘Not yet,’ said Mum. Her voice suddenly sounded too cheerful. ‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon though.’

Ash nodded and drained his glass of juice. ‘Right. I’ll go and have a shower.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mum. ‘I didn’t want to mention it but …’

‘Yeah, I’m all sweaty and I stink. I know, Mum.’

He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water sluice away the sweat and dust from his run. Then he towelled himself dry, went up to his bedroom in the attic and put on fresh clothes.

Through the open bedroom window, he heard the garden gate shriek on its hinges.

It was probably just the postman, he told himself. But his heart leaped anyway and he rushed to the window.

It wasn’t the postman.

It was Dad.

FOUR

Dad was standing in the driveway, just inside the gate. He looked the way Ash remembered: tall, broad-shouldered, tough as teak. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was dressed in his civvies and his dark hair was messy, despite the regulation army cut, but he still looked a soldier through and through.

Captain Stephen Tyler, home from war.

Then Dad walked out onto the lawn and it all started to fall apart. He looked loose somehow, as if his bones weren’t properly connected. Dragging his feet, swaying, stumbling.

Like a puppet with its strings cut.

Ash watched and a tiny knife of anxiety twisted inside him.

In the middle of the lawn, Dad stopped. He stared at the house as if it was somewhere he remembered from a dream. Then he looked straight up at the open window where Ash was.

Ash stuck out his head. ‘Dad! Hey, Dad!’

Dad just went on staring, as if Ash was a stranger to him. No smile, no wave, not even a flicker of recognition.

Ash flinched as if he’d been slapped across the face.

Dad took another step, lurched sideways, almost fell.

Drunk, thought Ash. Or something else wrong, something worse.

Anxiety cut through him again.

Mum came around the side of the house. She was still wearing her old straw hat. She stopped for a long moment, watching Dad. He hadn’t noticed her. He was still staring up at the house as if he’d never seen it before. She called out to him, her voice soft and low and so full of love that Ash suddenly felt afraid for her.

Dad looked across at her. He smiled weirdly, then a sob broke from him and he buckled, seemed about to crumple to his knees on the grass. Then Mum was running towards him and she caught him in her arms, held him close, held him up.

Ash turned away, embarrassed. They didn’t seem like his parents any more. Instead they were like two strangers caught in the middle of something huge and terrible, something he didn’t understand, didn’t want to see.

He lay on his bed, stared at the ceiling.

A door slammed downstairs. He closed his eyes. A blood-red glare behind his eyelids, and circling specks of black that opened dark wings and flapped away like carrion crows over a battlefield.

He curled up into a ball, rocked himself for a while, opened his eyes again.

However much he wanted to, he couldn’t stay up here for ever. Sunshine outside, Dad downstairs. Mum. The Stag Chase only a fortnight away. Everything waiting for him. So he got up, went down there.

They were sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in front of them. Typical, Ash thought. Everything falling apart and Mum had made a pot of tea.

Dad looked exhausted. Bruises under his eyes, his skin too thin and too tight, greyish under his desert tan. He glanced at Ash and then away again.

He looked ill. Injured, maybe, Ash thought. But the army would have told them if Dad had been injured, so not that. It wasn’t just drunkenness though. He’d seen Dad drunk before. Not often, but enough to know that this was different in some dark, deeper way that he didn’t understand.

‘Your dad’s home,’ said Mum. As if Dad wasn’t sitting right next to her.

‘I know,’ said Ash. He tried to smile, to make a joke of it. ‘I can see him.’

He pulled out a chair. The chair legs screeched across the lino and Dad winced.

Silence except for the tick of the wall clock.

Mum shot him a look. He knew what she wanted him to do. He was supposed to talk to Dad, act as if everything was normal so they could all pretend it really was, that Dad was his old self and that everything would be wonderful now he was home.

That was how it was supposed to be when your dad came back after months away at war. Family time. Hugs and laughter and love. A celebration.

The silence filled the room. Then Dad’s eyes half closed and he slumped a bit in his chair, almost slid off it onto the floor, grabbed the edge of the table to save himself. Tea slopped out of the mugs.

‘He’s drunk,’ said Ash. The words punched out like machine-gun fire before he could stop them. ‘He stinks of beer.’

‘That’s enough, Ash,’ said Mum sharply. ‘You’re not helping.’

He looked at her, looked at Dad. Tears burned behind his eyes.

‘I’m tired,’ said Dad, to no one in particular. The words slurring together. ‘If you don’t mind, I need to sleep now.’

He stood up. So did Mum.

‘No!’ said Dad. Voice cracking out like a whip. Mum looked shocked. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I just need some sleep. I’ll be all right tomorrow.’

He moved into the spare room with his rucksack, as if he was a guest.

And Ash knew he wouldn’t be all right tomorrow.

FIVE

Morning, and the distant mountains looked like a watercolour dissolving in rain, colours running together. But it was the heat haze that made the air shiver and blur, not rain. There hadn’t been any rain for almost two months. The grass was brittle and burned golden brown and the streams had shrunk to sluggish trickles that were more mud than water. Everything was tired, wilting, dusty, and Ash felt the same way, felt a hundred years old, all his strength and energy leached out.

He had a shopping list and a folded ten-pound note in his pocket. He knew the shopping was just Mum’s excuse to get him out of the house but he didn’t care. It was a relief to get out for a while, not to be at home with Dad in such a mess, not to be saying stupid angry things like he had yesterday. He was better off out of it.

He headed past the Old Rec, towards the row of little shops on the other side of the main street.

Then he saw her out on the Rec, sitting on one of the swings. Callie Cullen, barefoot and still wearing the dusty red dress he’d seen her in yesterday. Her serious grey eyes watched him. He got the feeling she’d been waiting for him. But she couldn’t have been. She couldn’t have known Mum would send him out to the shops.