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  ‘Amy,’ Isaac spoke in jolly Father Christmas sort of voice. ‘Do you know the words to “What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor?”’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘Amy, be nice to Isaac.’ Christine smiled broadly as she hurried by with the cardboard box.

  Christ, thought Richard uneasily, it’s as if they’ve all been drugged. Was he the only one not buzzing with the same anticipation? Even Joey was rushing backwards and forwards with boxes full of computer discs. Twice that morning Richard had noticed Joey sidling across to Michael when he was out of earshot of the others. Then, rubbing his index finger up the side of his nose like a two-bit conspirator, he’d started talking to Michael as if he wanted reassurance about something.

  Michael would nod and wink and Joey would move off, looking relieved.

  Richard poured himself another coffee. Here he was, faced with his family dancing to Michael’s tune – in the case of Amy, dancing literally. They were busily rushing from room to room, then out to the black Ford Granada parked outside. He saw all this, but what came to mind was an iceberg. Because nine-tenths of the iceberg is hidden under water. And Richard couldn’t help but think that there was a lot going on that he couldn’t see.

  Joey said something to Michael as he passed and Richard saw Michael mouth, ‘Friday.’

  Was Friday significant? Surely Michael would have told them all if it was. To Richard, it seemed as if Michael was saying ‘I’ll call you Friday.’ But why the whopping great secret?

  Amy still jigged up and down to the notes squeezing from the chrome harmonica. Isaac’s Santa Claus eyes were a bright baby-blue, his silver pony tail swung.

  Just then Christine came back with the box full of books. Richard saw Michael caught her eye and some understanding seemed to pass between them.

  Richard stood up, kicked aside a shoe box that was on the floor by his feet and helped himself to yet another mugful of coffee.

  ‘Hey,’ Amy protested. ‘You’ve kicked Rosemary Snow’s van.’

  Isaac’s harmonica playing stopped. To Richard the sudden silence seemed prickly. Static electricity fizzed across his finger when he touched the steel handle of the coffee jug.

  ‘Still want to dance, Amy?’ Isaac asked, his baby blues brighter than ever.

  ‘Sure do. I’m just putting Rosemary Snow straight in her van first. Look, Dad, you’ve knocked her sideways, you bad man.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to do some more dancing, but first Rosemary Snow’s van needs a drink of water.’

  It all got too oppressive in that kitchen with its low ceiling and fat oak beams. To Richard it felt as if the ceiling was slowly being screwed down closer and closer to his head.

  He took his coffee outside, sat on the garden wall and stared grimly out across the valley.

  ‘Shit, double shit, triple shit … come on … useless bastard!’

  She shouted again but the van’s engine died on her.

  Rosemary Snow stopped the van at the side of the woodland road, jumped out to see steam boiling from the radiator and swore again.

  I’m so damn close, she thought. I can almost smell them. She breathed deeply. OK, Red Zed Don’t lose it. Keep in control. Leave the motor to cool, then top it up from the bottles. For Godsakes, it can’t be much further. You crossed over the county boundary ten minutes ago. She went to check the road atlas. Banwick, near Dartmoor. It didn’t look far, but it could only be reached by these narrow twisting lanes.

  You’ll get there, Red Zed, she told herself. You’ll get there on your feet, or on your hands and knees if you have to.

  She threw open the back of the van, wincing as the still healing ribs and lacerations protested at too much activity, too soon. Jesus, Red Zed You’re not Superwoman. Just forty-eight hours ago you were still lying in that hospital bed.

  As she pulled out the water bottle she realized that in the last forty-eight hours she’d aged fast.

  The Rosemary Snow who once moped around her bedroom, curtains closed, preoccupied with being bullied at school or writing drippy letters to pop stars that she’d never send was dead and buried. Those tormentors at school seemed like little children now. She knew they held no fear for her any more. If she ever went back to school she’d say in an ice-cold way that would be so dangerous it glittered: ‘You. Outside. I think I owe you something.’ Then she’d bounce heads off the school wall.

  She gripped the radiator cap and twisted it off. The rage at Michael and the pain caused by her Frankenstein face gave her the energy and determination to finish the job she’d set out to do. And she realized with grim delight that there wasn’t a human being on the surface of this shitty planet who could stop her now.

  When the steam had stopped gushing from the radiator she began to pour in the water. In ten minutes, she told herself, she’d be on her way. She had an appointment with destiny.

  The harmonica music still belted from the cottage when Michael hurried out.

  ‘Richard. I need your help.’

  It was the first time Richard had seen the man actually sweat.

  ‘You do?’ Richard said coolly.

  ‘If you’ll follow me. Please.’

  Richard shrugged and followed.

  ‘If you agree, I’d like you to drive the second car.’

  ‘The Range Rover?’

  ‘No. The police might be looking for that now. There’s another car in the barn just beyond these trees.’

  Richard followed Michael as he hurried up a woodland path.

  ‘Why two cars, Michael?’

  ‘We’re so close getting the Beast back into its …’ smiling, he tapped the top of his head ‘… harness that I don’t want to risk cocking it up by a car breaking down on us.’

  ‘So I follow on in a convoy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. I think we should all stick together.’

  Michael stopped and turned. ‘I’ll ask Isaac to ride with you.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Richard caught Michael’s arm. ‘I thought you said we were all, as you put it, infected.’

  ‘You are. But not for much longer, hopefully.’

  ‘But that still means if we get separated it might track me down first.’

  ‘Really, Richard. Trust me. It’s still a long way off. If we leave within the next half-hour or so we can have a steady drive across to Norfolk.’

  ‘And that’s when that bastard you call the Beast will be back on its leash again, all obedient and making everything in the garden rosy.’

  ‘Look, Richard, I don’t blame you for feeling bitter. We’ve been through some shit together in the last couple of days.’

  ‘People have died, Michael.’

  ‘I know. But we are now so close to stopping it happening ever again.’ He held his hands apart with an inch between them, fingers trembling. ‘This close, Richard. Then we can start putting right in this world all that is wrong. Starvation, warfare —’

  Richard sighed. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ Michael led Richard to where a barn stood in a clearing in the trees. He unlocked a heavy padlock and swung open the door. Inside, he could see the Range Rover, still dented and dusty from York. Beside that, a black Ford Granada that looked a twin of the one parked down by the cottage. The barn itself had been used as a workshop, with shelves containing tools, paint tins, engine parts, even an ancient-looking radio with chunky bakelite knobs.

  ‘I’ll just check she’s running OK.’ Michael climbed into the car, started it, revved it for a couple of moments, then switched it off. ‘Perfect,’ he announced. ‘I’ll take Amy, Joey and Christine. You follow close behind with Isaac. Trust me, there’ll be no problems.’

  ‘What if I need to contact you?’ He hadn’t intended to sound facetious, but that was the way it came out. ‘Do we work out a series of codes for the car horn, or wind down the window and yell?’

  ‘Neither.’ Aga
in the forgiving smile. ‘Look.’ He pulled a rucksack from the backseat. ‘Mobile telephone fully charged. I’ll have one of these, too. The numbers are preset. Also in the bag is a map showing the location in Norfolk.’

  ‘But I’ll be following you.’

  ‘If the impossible happens and we get split up you’ll know how to find Middleton Hall.’

  ‘Doesn’t Isaac know the way?’

  ‘Yep, but you never know.’

  ‘You’ve taken a lot of precautions for something you say is unlikely.’

  Michael smiled. ‘You’ve heard of sod’s law?’

  Richard nodded. ‘If you drop a slice of buttered bread, it’s inevitable the sod will fall on the carpet buttered side down.’

  ‘You’ve got it, Dicky Boy, as our roly-poly friend Joey would say.’

  ‘OK.’ Richard found a smile playing on his lips. Michael’s charm was starting to work on him, too. Maybe he’d begun to get paranoid about Michael and Christine exchanging glances. For Christsakes it’s not as if they had time – or the opportunity – to become lovers or anything.

  ‘And in this side pouch.’ Michael held up the rucksack. ‘There’s a thousand pounds in cash.’

  ‘Just in case?’

  Michael nodded. ‘Just in case.’ Then with a slap on Richard’s back he said lightheartedly, ‘Come on. We’ll grab a sandwich before we leave. Oh, by the way. Here are the car keys. Put them somewhere safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  Michael led the way back down to the cottage, chatting enthusiastically. ‘Christine was saying that you script promotional videos. It’s a useful skill; the ability to help people understand new ideas that might otherwise be difficult to take in.’

  ‘You mean like the Beast?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Michael had picked up a stick and thoughtfully decapitated a dandelion clock. ‘Just for the sake of argument, imagine you were given a commission – money no object – to write a script for a public information film that could explain what the Beast was and how it would benefit humankind. How would you go about it?’

  Still talking, they headed down to the cottage below.

  Chapter 54

  Crunch Time

  For the next thirty minutes they made their preparations to leave. Once Michael took himself off for a walk into the woods to be alone with his thoughts. Five minutes later he was back, saying brightly, ‘OK, people, let’s roll.’

  It happened as quickly as that. One second Richard was watching Amy wave to him through the back window, the Rosemary Snow doll in the other hand. Christine waving, too. Then, the tyres crunched across the pebble yard to the driveway through the trees – and they were gone.

  Michael would wait for them at the village service station. It was less than a mile away. Why, then, did Richard feel such a bleak and cold sense of loss, as if he’d just said goodbye to his daughter and wife for ever?

  ‘All locked up,’ Isaac said, pocketing the keys. ‘Come on, let’s get the car and meet up with Michael.’

  Richard followed Isaac across the garden to a side gate which led to the woodland path up to the barn. The time was 10:58 a.m.

  The sound of Michael’s car faded into the distance. The sudden quiet that followed increased Richard’s unease. He shivered. The strokes of icy fingertips ran down his spine.

  Which is absurd, he told himself. They were in the middle of a bloody heatwave. Bees bumbled through the long grass, while sunlight slammed down through the trees in eye-dazzling slabs.

  Isaac was making small talk, his silver pony tail swinging from side to side. Occasionally he’d glance back, the baby-blue eyes friendly.

  Richard barely heard what the big man said; he put his head down and pushed on up the hill to where the barn stood, its twin doors wide open.

  ‘Richard, if you’ll drive the car out, I’ll lock the barn door behind you.’

  Richard gave a grim nod and hurried into the barn, its interior suddenly gloomy after the brilliance outside.

  The instant he touched the car door handle a fat spark of static cracked across his knuckles.

  Isaac stood with the padlock in his hands, saying amiably, ‘Michael’s taken a real shine to Amy, you know. She’s a beautiful little girl.’

  Richard didn’t care. He thought: It’s not as if when all this is over we’ll be inviting Michael to tea on Boxing Day or to Amy’s birthday parties at McDonalds. I’ll be cock-a-hoop never to set eyes on the man again.

  He swung himself into the seat.

  Then jammed in the ignition key and twisted it.

  Nothing.

  Not a dicky bird.

  Not a click or grunt or squeak.

  Richard looked at the key in disbelief. Has he given me the right ignition key?

  Of course he had. It slipped in easily. It turned easily.

  The only thing that didn’t happen easily was the motor starting.

  ‘Shit.’

  He turned the key again. The starter motor didn’t turn. There wasn’t even the tell-tale click of electricity running through the cables. Dead, dead, bloody dead.

  Shit!

  He tried the radio. Dead also.

  And the dashboard clock.

  SHIT!

  Isaac sang out, ‘You’re not going to take all day about starting the car, are you, Richard?’

  Richard got out of the car and slammed the door with a crash as loud as a shotgun blast.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Isaac hurried into the barn. ‘Why aren’t you starting the car?’

  ‘Because … ah!’ As Richard tried to open the bonnet static electricity cracked across his hand again. It felt like a smack from a ruler.

  Jesus Christ. Dread … a feeling of cold, cold dread shunted through him with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

  ‘Richard. What’s wrong. What’re you doing?’

  ‘Don’t you feel it, Isaac?’

  ‘No, what —’

  ‘Listen!’ Richard ran to the old radio with the bakelite knobs, switched it on. Beethoven’s Fifth boomed out, sounding like death himself knocking on your front door.

  ‘Just listen to this, Isaac. Listen to what your boss Michael has done to us!’ He twisted the saucer-sized tuning dial, taking the radio off station.

  Instantly static pumped from the speaker. The sound filled the barn. The regular beat of static. It sounded like the heart-beat of a giant.

  Richard’s voice rose above the static, ‘You know what this is?’

  Isaac nodded, the baby-blue eyes wide with shock.

  ‘And you know what that means, Isaac? That bastard has just signed our death warrant!’

  Ignoring the static shocks, Richard tore open the bonnet of the Ford. Inside the cables to the plugs had been cut.

  ‘Damn, the bastard!’ Richard ran to the Range Rover. The keys were still in the ignition. ‘Isaac. Get in.’

  Isaac stared as if he’d slipped into a trance.

  Richard turned the key.

  ‘Jesus, I don’t believe it. The bastard. THE BASTARD!’

  Again he opened the bonnet to find the cables cut. Michael had done a thorough job when he’d gone for his supposed woodland walk. He wanted them to be there when the Beast finally came striding invisibly across the Devon landscape.

  We’re its sacrificial meat, thought Richard with such a huge surge of bitterness that he wanted to scream at the sky and curse God and Michael and the Satanic fates that had brought them together. ‘That bastard Michael has deliberately abandoned us here.’

  Sparks flew from his fingers every time he touched metal, the smell of static stained the air, his clothes crackled when he moved and all the time he could hear the old radio that had sedately played music old and new for the last thirty years beating out that terrible, terrible sound. Louder and louder came the beat; that fat burst of static as his Destroyer approached.

  Richard screamed at Isaac, ‘Run!’

  Isaac shook his head and sat on the bonnet of the Ford. His
head hung forward, the baby-blue eyes looked down at the ground.

  ‘Come on, man,’ Richard yelled. ‘Run!’

  Isaac gave a little shake of his head. The baby-blue eyes never looked up.

  ‘You can’t just wait here. You’ve got to – Christ!’

  Somewhere outside came a tremendous crash. It sounded like a tree falling – no, a tree being slammed to the ground.

  Isaac took out the silver harmonica and began to play Greensleeves. He played it soft and slow; slow as a funeral march.

  The man had surrendered himself to his fate.

  All the time the radio crunched out the beat of static as the thing got closer. Now the sound was so great the speaker distorted it into a constant pulsing roar of white noise.

  Looking down at the ground, Isaac played the harmonica. He’d made up his mind there was nowhere to run.

  But Richard ran.

  He came out of the barn as if his clothes were on fire, arms windmilling, dragging in choking lungfuls of air.

  He didn’t know where he was running. Instinct alone guided him. He ran down hill through the trees, leaped over tree roots, fallen trunks, branches —

  — thinking: Please don’t let me fall, please don’t let me fall, please don’t —

  Back in the barn, Isaac played the harmonica, the notes flying through the branches above as gracefully as swallows, the music and the sunlight running together. In a way, Richard felt he ran in a dream. Music. Sunlight. Trees. Long Grass. Dandelions beneath his feet, and —

  BANG!

  With a roar like thunder the barn was hammered flat.

  And the music stopped. Richard snapped out of the trance and ran harder.

  Branches whipped his face. A bramble caught his cheek and drew a line in blood.

  Crash. He slammed down on to his chest, rolled – rolled again and was back on his feet. Panting, gurgling, trying to draw air into his lungs so he could outrun the thing that followed him.

  His Destroyer.

  Behind came a series of creaks followed by crashes. It was in the forest now. Crushing a twenty-yard strip of timber as it followed him. Glancing back, he saw trees shiver, writhe as if in agony then explode in a spray of pulp and leaves.