A Different Kingdom(24)

He surfaced, whooping for air. His shoes were weighing him down. He made the far bank, hauled himself out of the water like an old, old man and lay there with the grass at his cheek and waited-for his heart to slow from a sprint.

'God,' he croaked.

He was on the eastern bank of the little river, and ten yards away the arch of the bridge gaped like a dark and empty gateway.





SIX

'MOTHER OF GOD, Michael! What in the world is that? It gave me the fright of my life!'



He groaned, turning in bed, muzzy-eyed. His grandmother shook his shoulder. 'Where did you get it? You can't keep things like that in the house.'

Stupid with waking, he told the truth. 'Found it near the wee river. It's just a skull.'

'A skull! And what would you be wanting with a skull in the house, sitting on top of the wardrobe? I hope it's not old Demon's head that you've dug up, or your grandfather will be none too pleased. Graverobbing, is what it is.'

'It's not. It's some other skull. Some other dog.' He yawned, though he was now fully awake. Outside the morning was blue and murky, and rain drummed on the window.

'Well, you'd better shake a leg. Your grandfather's already at his breakfast and Mullan is setting up the big trap. We don't want to be late on account of one sleepyhead.' She moved towards the door. 'Skulls now it is!'

Michael hauled himself out of bed. His body ached all over, and he felt grimy. The skull grinned at him, black bone in the corner. God, it was big.

Sunday morning. Mass. He groaned again.

THE RAIN WAS blinding on the way into town, the water spinning off the wheels of the trap. Sean muttered about getting a car and moving into the twentieth century, but Michael's grandparents seemed not to mind the rain. Bundled up in oilskins and hoods, they looked more like sailors than churchgoers.



Michael and Aunt Rachel hung on grimly at the rear with the water streaming into their eyes. Michael could feel the collar of his good shirt slowly getting colder and colder with the rain. Rachel ignored him, holding down one end of her hat with a work-red hand.

The Horseman was in the field next to the road, close to the hedge.

Michael could have touched his horse's muzzle as the trap rattled past. No one else appeared to have seen him. He was even blacker with rain, his mount's coat flat and slick. His cloaks and wrappings clung to him like a second skin, and he was lean and wiry under them. The whip dangled from one gloved hand. His steed threw up its head and snorted against the insistent rain, but the rider might have been a corpse propped up in the saddle. Except when the hooded face turned to follow the progress of the trap down the road.

THAT NIGHT THE sky cleared and the wind fell. It was a cold night, the promise of frost-in the air. Michael lay in bed staring at the skull on top of his wardrobe. At his feet the window opened out into blue darkness. The farm was asleep, but he could not drop off. He felt he was on the border of another country, that he had peered through a door not often opened and it had remained ajar after him. For things to come through.



The skull stared at him, sneering in the dark. He should have left it where he had found it. He knew, now, that this thing was his alone, that no one else would ever share in it or see the things he saw. A dog's skull, he had said, and his grandfather had looked at him with disconcerting shrewdness.

'Been a whole load of farm dogs buried on the banks of the river through the years, Michael. Our family, my father, my grandda. There's probably a dozen of them lying down there, fifty years dead. It's no bad idea to let them be. You wouldn't want somebody digging up Demon, would you?'

And he had shaken his head dumbly.

Old Felix whinnied in the night, the sound carrying in the starlit air.

He threw aside his bedclothes and crawled along the bed to the window. His eyes were already accustomed to the dark of the room and the yard seemed almost bright by comparison, the farm buildings shrouded in shadow. He grabbed his alarm clock and squinted at the arms with the face close to his nose. Just after four.

Something tall and angular moved quickly from one patch of darkness to another, disappearing behind a corner.

He stared, eyes wide as an owl's.

The thing came into view again, on all fours this time, with its nose close to the ground as if following ascent. It was black-furred, lean, deep-chested with a long thin muzzle and large upright ears. It stood up again, well over six feet, its forearms too long for its body. It had no tail.

And it loped across the yard with its nose tilted up towards Michael's window.

He drew back, sick with fear. The window was open six inches and he thought he could hear it snuffling below. Can werewolves climb? His racing mind wondered. He felt a scream creep up into his throat but it lodged there, choking him into silence.

The thing reappeared, near the stables. The halfdoors were closed and it pawed the bolts with clawed hands. Felix began whinnying in earnest, and the other horses joined him. There was a bang, loud as a gunshot, as one of them kicked the stable door. The werewolf drew back hurriedly. Michael heard voices from his grandparents' room. Then the back door slammed and Mullan limped out into the yard with a shotgun broken open in his hands. He stuffed a shell into it and clicked it shut. The werewolf had sidled round the corner of the stables. Michael could just see it, crouched down along the wall with its mouth open, panting like a dog. He banged his window to warn, but still could say nothing. Mullan spun round, eyebrows going up his forehead as he saw Michael at the window—and in that instant the beast leapt away from the stable wall, out of the yard. Mullan spun again and fired the shotgun from the hip like Audie Murphy, the recoil knocking him back a step. The shot was shockingly loud, the flash scattering Michael's sight with after-images. Mullan broke open the gun once more and limped steadily out of the yard in pursuit, fumbling in his pocket for another shell. A flood of light filled the yard as Sean and Pat came out of the back door bearing lanterns, long stock coats thrown over their pyjamas. They almost collided with Mullan as he came back into the light with the shotgun over his shoulder. Michael caught snatches of their talk.