High Moor (11 page)

“Help, I’m in here,” she yelled, no longer caring if the bullies found her. The effort filled her lungs with smoke and made her break out in fits of coughing.

Glass shattered in the room beyond. The sound of the flames grew from a crackle into a roar. Marie fell to her knees and sobbed. Her eyes burned and she felt dizzy.

“Help,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and coughed again, each lungful of air sucking in more smoke, fuelling the coughs.

She was barely aware of the table being dragged away from her hiding place and the door being wrenched open. John pulled her to her feet.

“Come on, we’ve got to get outside,” he said as he half dragged, half carried her to the broken window that he'd climbed in through.

The classroom was ablaze. Fire flowed across the notice boards and bookcases that adorned the walls. It licked at the polystyrene tiles on the roof, which melted. Droplets of fire fell to the floor and across the desks, igniting anything they touched. The heat was unbearable, and the smell of burning hair mingled with the thick black smoke that filled the room.

John pushed Marie onto the desk and she crawled out of the open window. She fell to the floor outside, coughing. John followed and helped her to her feet. They could hear approaching sirens in the distance, getting closer with each second.

“Come on Marie. We’ve gotta go.”

Marie nodded. The two children made their way back to the bushes on the edge of the school field.

***

Simon's eyes were wide open and panic crept into his voice. “Mal, the doors are locked.” Smoke-filled the corridors, and over the crackle of the flames they heard sirens.

Malcolm pushed Simon out of the way. “Let me see.” He shook the doors, which remained shut. Malcolm kicked one of the door's glass panels out and crawled through. Billy, Lawrence, and Simon followed.

“We gotta get out of here, now,” said Lawrence. The boys ran to their bikes, picked them up, and jumped on.

“What the hell? Oh God.”

The boys dropped their bikes in unison and looked at their hands. Lawrence threw up. Billy joined him.

Malcolm looked at his friends in disgust. “Never mind that, we have to go."

Too late. A police car entered the school grounds at speed and squealed to a stop in front of the four boys. Two police officers got out of the car.

One of the officers grabbed Malcolm by the arm. “You lot, stay where you are.”

The other officer grabbed Simon, and the two boys were manhandled into the back of the car. Once Lawrence and Billy stopped being sick, they too were locked in the rear of the police car.

Flames burst from the school windows, followed by a column of smoke, rising high into the air. The fire engines arrived. The crew's attempts to douse the flames met with limited success.

One of the police officers went through Malcolm's pockets and produced a small bottle of vodka and the piece of cannabis. “You boys are in a lot of trouble. Breaking and entering. Arson, alcohol, and drugs. I think we had better take you four back to the station.”

“Bob?” said the other officer.

“Yeah?”

“Can you smell dog shit?”

***

John, Michael and Marie watched from the bushes. They saw Malcolm’s gang bundled into the police car and watched as it drove away. Another fire engine arrived to try to contain the blaze, but it was too late to make much difference.

Michael turned to Marie. “What happened? You were meant to get straight out.”

“I tried. I couldn’t find the stupid classroom.”

Michael threw his arms around his sister. “You could have been killed.” Marie started coughing again.

“Anyway,” she said, “what are you complaining for? The plan worked perfectly. Better than perfect.”

“Apart from you two stinking of smoke, and John hardly having any eyebrows left, you mean?”

“Who cares about that? The police got them. They’ll probably go to borstal.”

“And did you see the look on their faces when they got on their bikes?” said John.

Michael grinned. “I know. I thought I was going to piss myself, especially when Lawrence and Billy started being sick.”

John hugged his two friends.

“We got the bastards. We finally got them.”

“Dave would have been proud,” said Marie.

“Yeah, he really would,” said Michael as he hugged his friends tighter. Behind them the school burned.

7th May 1986. Woodside Farm, High Moor. 02.25.

The scream jarred Andrew Stott awake. His eyes snapped open in the dark and he lay motionless, listening for any sounds of intrusion. All he could hear were the staccato grunts of his wife next to him.

Damn, that woman can snore.

He looked at the alarm clock and groaned. He rolled over, putting the pillow over his head in a vain attempt to drown out some of the noise. His bladder ached. There was no way he was getting back to sleep. He threw back the covers and stumbled to the bathroom.

Andrew sighed with relief as he directed the stream of liquid into the porcelain bowl. He could still hear his wife upstairs. A bass rumble, interspersed with wet squelching sounds like a horse drowning in a bucket of jelly.

Maybe we should think about sleeping separately. She can sleep out in the fucking barn, and I’ll stay in the house. On second thoughts, that would just piss the horses off.

Now that he was far enough away from his snoring wife, he could hear something else. Outside, the animals in the field were agitated. The sheep bleated their alarm, while the horses whinnied and snorted. He was about to run outside to see what the problem was, then he remembered the reports on the news. He pulled on his boots, grabbed a high-power flashlight, took his shotgun from the cabinet in the kitchen, and stepped out into the darkness.

The night air was cold. The wind tugged at his dressing gown as he made his way across the farm yard. The sounds of distress were much clearer now. The temptation to call the police and retreat back to the house was overwhelming.

No. If it’s just a bloody badger, then I’ll be a laughing stock. Besides, if it is something else, God knows what’ll be left by the time plod gets here.

He stepped out into the lane, shotgun raised to his shoulder. He held the flashlight in his left hand, under the barrel of the gun. The bleating from the sheep was frantic, and as he approached the field, he could see them packed against the barbed wire fence, trying to find a way through.

Andrew climbed over the gate and swept the torch around the field. In front of him, a pair of green eyes shone out of the darkness. His heart leaped and, for a split second, he almost ran. Then he pulled the trigger.

***

7th May 1986. Aykley Head’s Police Headquarters. 10.00.

Steven Wilkinson and Carl Schneider walked side by side through the corridors of the police headquarters to Inspector Frank’s office.

“You any idea what this is about, Steve?”

“Not a clue. Maybe the Inspector got your hotel bill.”

The older man laughed. “Ha, can’t expect to drag a man halfway around the world to do a job and then put him up in some fleapit. You Brits sure like to keep your hand on the purse strings.”

They arrived at the Inspector’s office. Steven knocked twice on the door. After a long pause, the Inspector’s voice told them to enter.

Where Steven’s office was a cluttered mess of paperwork and mismatched furniture, Inspector Franks' was pristine. A mahogany desk dominated the room, and matching bookcases adorned the walls. The Inspector looked up from his paperwork as the two men entered.

“Ah, Sergeant Wilkinson, Mr Schneider. Thank you for coming. Please take a seat, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Steven and Carl sat on the far side of the desk, while the Inspector examined the papers in front of him. Carl tried to catch Steven’s eye, but the other man sat up straight in the chair and looked at the wall behind the Inspector. After a while, Inspector Franks signed one of the papers and put them in a tray.

“Sorry about that, Gentlemen. You know how paperwork can be. I’ll get straight to it. We have some good news. The so called High Moor Beast was shot and killed by a farmer in the early hours of this morning.”

Steven and Carl exchanged glances.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Absolutely,” said the Inspector as he pushed some photographs across the table.

Carl flicked through the pictures and shook his head. “This is a puma. A puma didn’t kill that boy. You got the wrong critter.”

The Inspector interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on them, then leaned forward in his seat. “If this animal was not responsible for the death of that child, Mr Schneider, then what was?”

Carl glanced at Steven. “I think it might have been a bear.”

Inspector Franks raised an eyebrow. “A bear? You expect me to believe that, in addition to a large carnivorous cat roaming the area, we also have a man-eating bear on the loose?”

Steven put his hand up to silence Carl. “Sir, have the forensics reports on the boy come back yet? They should clearly show that the attack was not carried out by a big cat.”

“The forensics reports were inconclusive, I’m afraid.”

Carl sat forward in his chair. “Inspector Franks, I think you're making a grave mistake. I believe that whatever killed that boy is still out there and that lives are still at risk.”

“Is that out of concern for the safety of the people of High Moor? Or are you more concerned about the continuation of your expense account, Mr Schneider?”

Carl's eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you trying to say here, Inspector?”

“I’m saying that, as far as I am concerned, this case is closed, and we shall no longer be requiring your services, Mr Schneider. Sergeant Wilkinson, you should resume your normal duties, effective immediately. After you drop Mr Schneider off at the airport, of course.”

Carl got to his feet and leaned across the desk. “You can’t do this, Inspector. People will die, and it will be all on you.”

“That will be all, Mr Schneider. Unless, of course you would like to stay and discuss the matter of your attempt to smuggle illegal weapons into the country?”

Carl’s face contorted with anger, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to reach across the desk and drag the Inspector over it. He exhaled, clenched his fists, and strode out of the office. Steven followed, allowing the door to slam behind him.

“Sanctimonious, officious, stuck-up little prick. Jesus, Steve, I don’t know how you work for that asshole.”

“There are days when it can be difficult. Like today. So is that it? You’re going back to the States?”

Carl winked at him. “I think I might stick around for another couple of weeks and, you know, see some of the country. Gonna need a place to stay though, what with my expense account getting shut off. You up for having a lodger?”

Steven groaned. “My wife is going to fucking kill me."

***

7th May 1986. High Street, High Moor. 16.00.

Yolanda hurried through the crowded street, the newspaper clutched to her chest. She eased her way through the groups of schoolchildren that congregated outside the newsagent, and the lines of people with full shopping bags that waited at the bus stop. She wanted to run, to get back to Joseph and tell him the news. Instead, she forced herself to walk, moving with grace and agility through small gaps in the crowd until she left the high street and started up the hill, past Coronation Park and the new housing estate that surrounded it. When she reached the gravel road that led to the moor, her pace quickened. She was on the verge of running as she arrived at the gypsy camp.

Joseph sat by the campfire with two of the other men. A pot of water bubbled over the flame. Joseph looked up to his wife, his face a blank mask, devoid of any emotion or reaction to the casual observer. Yolanda, however, could read her husband like a book. “Joseph, I need to speak to you.”

“Of course, dear.” He got to his feet and walked to his caravan. Yolanda followed him and closed the door.

“What’s the matter, Yolanda?”

She handed him the newspaper. “They killed a puma last night in a field near the town.”

“And?”

“Well, don’t you see? They'll blame the animal for your mother’s activity. We move away. No one will think anything of it. We can be safe.”

“And we will move away, Yolanda. When Mirela has recovered sufficiently to travel.”

“And what if she changes on the next full moon, Joseph? What then?”

“She can’t change. The silver won't be out of her system until after the full moon, and she won’t be able to change until that happens. You know this.”

“That may be the case in normal circumstances, but Mirela is hardly normal. She’s moonstruck, and as you are very much aware, pack law requires all moonstruck to be killed. Do we really know if the same rules apply? One has never been allowed to live long enough for us to be sure. Not only that, but she's been shot with silver before. When we were still with the Pack, I heard rumours that Sebastian and the other enforcers dosed themselves with silver to build up a tolerance. What if the same thing happens with your mother? Can you at least take her out onto the moors?”