Guy N. Smith - The Lurkers

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For Trev and Mar Stead

THE LURKERS ISBN 0600 20621 1

First published in Great Britain 1982

Hamiyn Paperbacks arc published by The Hamiyn Publishing Group Ltd.,

Astronaut House, Feltham, Middlesex, England.

Reproduced, printed and bound in Great Britain by Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd,

Aylesbury, Bucks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or Otherwise circulated without the

publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Janie Fogg had the feeling that there was something out there. A kind of

intuition that sent a tingling feeling up and down her spine and made her

constantly glance out of the grimy latticed windows towards the dark fir woods

that lined the horizon.

Another half-hour and it would be dark. That wouldn't help, because if there

was anything lurking outside, whatever or whoever it was would be able to

creep right up to this tumbledown cottage. She shuddered, felt the urge to

flee now whilst it was still light, whilst there was time. Before . . .

She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again she would find

herself back in the modern characterless semi-detached house that looked

across on dozens of identical dwellings. The Perrycroft Estate, mundane - but

safe. It didn't happen that way, though. Oh God, the desolation, the fear was

still here. And as if to increase her uneasiness the dusk was turning the

distant mountains into a grey unfriendly land mass that seemed to hem her in.

Janie carried on drying the dishes. A cup and saucer rattled in her trembling

hand as she carried it from the table. She was forced to look.out of the

window again, searching the rough grass fields that led up to the forest,

endeavouring to spot the object of her mounting terror. But there was nothing,

just a few sheep and a smaller creature that could have been either a hare or

a rabbit by the furthermost hedgerow.

All this was sheer madness, coming to a place like this at this time of the

year. In summer it would not have been so bad; she might even have enjoyed it

for a week. But it was November and the desolate landscape was shrouded in low

cloud for most of the time, a perpetual atmosphere of damp and cold. Hodre was

a typical dilapidated Welsh country cottage, the kind of place unscrupulous

owners could charge a hundred pounds a week for in the holiday season simply

because escapist urban dwellers thought they were 'getting away from it all'.

That was fine when the sun shone and bees worked diligently gathering pollen

amongst the masses of wild flowers; now the flowers and the bees were gone and

she faced stark reality.

At thirty-six life had settled to a nice even pattern for Janie: a husband who

went out to work at eight in the morning and came home at six, a mortgage

within their means because they hadn't tried to keep up with the Jones's and

moved to a detached house. A car on HP and a few pounds left over for a ride

out at the weekends. Now that Gavin was at school Janie could have got a job,

but it would have spoiled it all because she would not have had time to do her

household chores as meticulously as she liked. Life wasn't boring because this

was the kind of existence she had dreamed of for years, conventionally perfect

in every aspect.

And then Peter had gone and ruined it all by writing that damned book, working

on it two or three evenings a week for over a year. She had actually

encouraged him at the time because it kept him in the house instead of out in

his garage workshop until eleven o'clock at night. But she would never in her

wildest fantasies have thought that it would have been the springboard for all

this. Thousands of people wrote books that were never published. Only

exceptionally lucky ones received royalties. And certainly only a meagre

handful made it really big on a first book.

It was an experience that left Janie dazed and still waking up each morning in

the beginning thinking that maybe she had dreamed it all. Who in their right

minds would pay an advance of fifteen thousand pounds for a few hundred

typewritten pages of a novel when they did not even know whether or not it

would sell? Janie didn't know the details of this apparent madness but there

had been talk of some kind of auction - publishers trying to outbid one

another for Peter's book.

Peter should have been satisfied once he'd banked his cheque, a nest egg which

would allow them to live comfortably for many years without worrying about

recessions and inflation and all that sort of gloom which came out of the TV

screen at nine o'clock every night. But he wasn't satisfied; it had changed

him almost overnight, in her opinion anyway. He was greedy, he wanted to do it

all over again: another book and another fifteen grand. That was why they had

moved to Hodre for a year. A year! She'd go mad. The nearest village was three

miles away, and their closest neighbours, the Ruskins at the big Hill farm on

the other side of the forest, weren't exactly the friendliest people you could

meet. They seemed resentful that the Foggs had moved in. Driving by in their

Land Rover or tractor, father and sons glared down at the small stone cottage.

Peter said it was because they desperately wanted Hodre and its meagre three

or four acres to complete their monopoly of an upland sheep empire, but Clive

Blackstone, Hodre's owner who lived somewhere much more civilised down on the

south coast, was rich enough and stubborn enough to resist tempting offers. So

in a way having the Ruskins as neighbours was worse than having no neighbours

at all.

Janie's lips tightened. Peter was selfish as well as greedy. He had uprooted

both herself and Gavin, heedless of the fact that their nine-year-old son had

just settled into the big middle school. Now Gavin had to pick up the threads

all over again, and try and hold his own in an out-of-the-way village school

where in all probability they used outdated teaching methods.

Janie sighed her relief audibly and almost forgave her husband for everything

as she spied the blue Saab estate car winding its way down the narrow lane

between the low pleached hedges. Her fears seemed to lessen with the

realisation that Peter had returned from collecting Gavin from school in the

village. But it would be like this every day: a regular period of loneliness

and terror. She tried to tell herself that she would get used to it but she

knew she wouldn't.

The Saab's headlights were on. Dusk had deepened considerably during the last

ten minutes or so whilst she had been looking out of the window. Even with

Peter back, night still held a thousand terrors for Janie; things she couldn't

explain, couldn't talk to Peter about.

Away to the left, only three hundred yards from the cottage and just visible

from the small lead-framed windows, a rough circle of twisted and stunted

pines were silhouetted against the deep grey of a darkening western sky, set

on an elevated hillock so that they would be visible from almost any angle in

this barren rocky hill country. Janie shivered; that place was something else

that unnerved her, making her want to lock the doors and windows before it got

properly dark. An ancient druid stone circle lay beneath those warped pines.

So the locals said, anyway, and you could take most of what they said with a

pinch of salt, Janie sneered to herself. The villagers didn't like having

strangers in their midst, so the story could have been invented for the sole

purpose of discouraging outsiders. But there was no getting away from the fact

that there was a rough circle of large stones up there and the place was also

listed on the large scale ordnance survey map of the district.

Peter had shown a considerable interest in the circle and had even taken Gavin

up there (all part of the boy's education, he had said), and the boy had been

fascinated by a huge flat stone which Peter claimed had to be the sacrificial

stone. Ugh, it was horrible, best forgotten. There were enough killings in the

twentieth century without digging up gory reminders from a bygone age, Janie

had insisted. History always seemed to be about bloodshed and maybe that was

why life was so cheap nowadays. Nobody was safe anywhere. That feeling of

uneasiness came back. There was something dangerous about Hodre.

'Hi.' Peter was standing inside the small hallway, seemingly oblivious of the

draught from the door, which hadn't latched properly. Short and stocky, his

features had a squareness about them, a ruggedness that Janie had once

described as a bulldog-look. But now his appearance was spoiled by the long

sandy hair that curled around the collar of his open-necked shirt and the worn

and faded jeans. She wore jeans, too, but had always prided herself in being

immaculate, even out here. Not a strand of her long golden hair was out of

place, (its natural colour was dark brown but Peter had a preference for

blondes), and the matching denim jacket showed no traces of the household

chores she had done throughout the day. She had put on make-up because she

felt undressed without it. That was the difference between the two of them,

the formal and the informal, a blend of oppo-sites that had somehow worked

out. Until now.

'Where's Gavin?' She tried to peer past him through the open door. It was

almost dark now and she could only just make out the outline of the rickety

front gate.

'He's probably gone up to the granary to look for the cat/ Peter replied.

'This place'll give him a good chance to get used to animals, something that's

been lacking in his life before. The most you could hope for at Perrycroft was

a hamster and a goldfish. Dogs and cats had a high mortality rate.'

'Well, he ought to come inside. It's almost dark.' She couldn't keep the edge

of nervousness out of her tone. She wanted to push past her husband, rush

outside and shout for Gavin to come in quickly. With an effort she controlled

herself. 'Go and call him, please, Peter.'

Tn a minute.' He paused, looked down at the floor as though he had something

to say which was best said in the boy's absence.'Janie, there's something he's

not happy about. Something at school. I don't know what it is, but he'd

probably tell you whereas he'd clam up if I asked him.'

'Oh!' Janie stiffened. 'What makes you think that?'

'The way he was in the car coming home; didn't say a word, just sat staring

out of the window. You know how kids get fears, little things that they keep

to themselves and blow up out of all proportion. It's probably nothing much

but we'd better sort it out. There's no rush, though, there's a whole-weekend

in front of us before school starts again.'

'It was wrong to disturb his schooling.' A reprimand. 'He was getting on OK.

Now he's got to start all over again.'

'That's rubbish.' Peter could feel the friction building up between them

again; it never used to be like this. 'He'll be better out here. There's more

time, less pupils, and things aren't rushed through like they are in big

schools. It's what he needs.'

'Maybe and maybe not.' She was edging nearer the door, trying not to make her

fears obvious. She didn't want Gavin playing outside after dark. Til talk to

him tonight when it's bedtime. But first -'

A movement in the darkness outside had her tensing, almost crying out; a shape

that could have been anything materialising out of the encroaching gloom,

wraith-like, featureless. The scream was forming in Janie's throat. Just in

time she recognised the features of her own son, the familiar pallid freckled

face, the tousled red hair. Thank God!

'You're to come inside straightaway, Gavin.' She sounded almost on the verge

of hysteria. 'I don't like you outside after dark.'

The boy's questing gaze by-passed her and focused on his father; a look that

said, 'What the hell's got into Mum?*

'You'd better stay indoors now, Gav,' Peter spoke slowly. He knew he had to

cool this situation before it blew up into a major family row. 'Tomorrow's

Saturday. You'll have all weekend to play outside.'

Silence; an atmosphere that all three of them felt; that words were being held

back deliberately.

'I can't find Snowy, Dad. He's nowhere around but I can hear something running

about in the rafters of the granary. If I had a torch . . .'

'Probably rats.' Peter regretted the words the moment he had spoken them. Oh

Jesus Christ, Janie was terrified of most small creatures. It was a miracle

she hadn't heard those mice last night.

'Rats!' Her expression, her posture, were rigid with revulsion. 'Peter, you

don't mean to say that we've got rats in the place!'

There's always the odd rat and mouse to be found in old property.' Play it

right down. 'Maybe one that was just sheltering for the night. Gavin might

have been mistaken, but if he wasn't then Snowy's probably taking care of it.'

Janie pushed the door shut; the latch jumped and it swung

back open. Almost flinging herself at it she slammed it back with a vibrating

crash and struggled to shoot the rusting bolt home. Oh please God, let me shut

the night out!

'Tea's almost ready.' With a supreme effort she managed to speak calmly,

hoping that the other two couldn't hear the way her heart was thumping. At

least they were all safe inside and nobody was going out again tonight.

In a way it was claustrophobic security.

Janie had expected to find Gavin already in bed when she went up to his small

low-ceilinged room at half-past nine. The place had a musty smeli about it and

large areas of plaster had crumbled off the walls. She wrinkled her nose as

she opened the door, and stared in astonishment at what she saw.

Gavin was sitting on the edge of his bed, still fully dressed, just looking

blankly at the wall.If he had been playing with his war games or reading it

wouldn't have been so bad. But he wasn't. He saw her but there was no greeting

on his freckled face, no smile. Just an expression that could only be

interpreted as - fear.

Janie caught her breath and felt her heartbeat speeding up again. 'What's the

matter?' She moved forward, seated herself on the bed beside the boy and

slipped an arm around him. Suddenly she wanted to burst into a torrent of

tears but she knew that for his sake she had to hold them back.

'Snowy's missing.* His voice was husky but somehow unconvincing. Everybody was

trying to cover up by lying.

'He's probably off hunting rats and mice.' She shuddered at the thought. 'But

there's something else worrying you, isn't there, Gav?'

Silence, except for a stifled sob. They'd both end up crying at this rate.

'Come on, you can tell Mummy.' She'd been 'Mum' for the last two years but now

he didn't seem as grown-up as she'd thought, a little boy who needed to

confide in his mother. They had to go back a few years if they were to get

anywhere.

'It's - it's the - Wilsons.' He choked the name out.

'And who are the Wilsons?'

'Big boys at school. They're going to beat me up on Monday.' Gavin was

beginning to cry; a couple of tears escaped and rolled down either cheek.

They'd've done me over after school today in the playground, only Dad came

early.'

This is ridiculous/ She felt her anger mounting towards the unknown village

louts. 'Now don't worry about them. I doubt very much whether it's any more

than schoolboy threats. They'll have forgotten all about it by Monday. And,

anyway, they wouldn't dare.'

'They would!' Almost a shout. 'They blacked Kevin Arnold's eye on Wednesday

and they got him down and kicked him at playtime on Thursday.'

'And what did Mr Hughes say to that?'

'He doesn't know who did it and Kevin won't say, else they'll really do him.

And Mr Hughes is scared of the Wilsons too because if he caned them their big

brothers would slash the tyres of his car or throw bricks through his window.

Everybody'sscared of the Wilsons, Mum,'

'Well, there's no need for you to be.' Janie's mouth tightened and she

clenched her fists. 'They're just yobbos, as bad as those rioters in London.

Anyway, why are they going to beat you up?'

'They say - I'm an English - bastard,' Gavin was beginning to sob now.

'Well, I think they're Welsh . . . ' She stopped herself in time. 'I see,

they're copying these Welsh nationalists they've seen on telly. Anything

that's English can't be any good. Spray the English road signs with aerosol

paint. Set fire to the English holiday cottages. Drive the English back over

the border. Good God, it's like the old border skirmishes of years ago. I

suppose this boy Kevin Arnold is English?'

'Yes.' Gavin buried his face against his mother. 'They say that we've no right

to be living at Hodre and they'll beat me up just to show you what'll happen

to you if you don't pack up and leave'.

'Well, we're not standing for that sort of behaviour either at school or

anywhere else,' Janie snapped. 'In fact, I expect your Dad will go and see Mr

Hughes on Monday and get this nonsense sorted out.'

'No! No, Mum, please don't let Dad go and cause trouble because the Wilsons

will kill me!'

Janie sighed. Terrorism at juvenile level, even out here in the sticks. Gavin

was terrified; the Wilson boys obviously held the school in a grip of fear. It

was all Peter's fault for coming out here in the first place. They never had

any of this kind of trouble at Perrycroft.

Slowly she helped Gavin undress, pulled on his pyjamas the way she used to do

when he was small, and felt the way he trembled in every limb. He didn't

resist, showed none of the embarrassment that a nine-year-old might display in

such circumstances. Because he was very, very frightened.

As Janie descended the steep narrow staircase she could hear the tap-tapping

of Peter's typewriter from the front room, which he was using as a study. And

in that moment she hated him for what he was doing to them. Oh why couldn't

they have stayed back home in the nice friendly comfortable city? Why did he

have to write a book and change their whole lifestyle? Why couldn't he have

stayed on in a regular nine-to-five job that didn't have any problems?

She knew the answers to those questions all right. Because Peter didn't want

to conform to the System. Because he wanted more money. And more. Because he

didn't give a damn for anybody now, neither herself nor Gavin.

But somebody was going to have to sort these Wilsons out. If necessary she

would do it herself.

A scratching, scurrying noise from the ceiling above her interrupted her

thoughts. Mice. The skin on the back of her neck pimpled and her mouth went

dry. For one fleeting second she almost ran towards the front door, to get

away from this vermin-infested hovel. But she didn't, because her terror of

the unknown was greater than that of rats and mice.

And there was something insidious out there in the blackness of a mountain

night. She could sense its presence.

The Foggs always had a lie-in on Saturday mornings. Not as long as on Sundays

because there were weekend chores that had to be done; like shopping, washing

the car, mowing the lawns in the summer.

Janie groaned to herself as she awoke and saw the dark grey of a winter's

morning filtering into the bedroom through the frayed curtains. Everything

came back to her in one rush as though determined to depress her for the day.

The Wilsons, those rodents, the lack of mod-cons and all the extra work it

entailed - like carrying in buckets of coal, which left a trail of mud and

coaldust across the kitchen floor, and trying to light a stubborn old Rayburn

that smoked back so that she needed a bath afterwards. But Gavin was her main

worry. She'd told Peter in bed last night, half-expecting him to fly into one

of his rages and threaten to kill the Wilson boys with his bare hands. Instead

he had said, 'Decidedly awkward. We'll have to play it very, very carefully.'

What was he going to do, and what would happen to Gavin on Monday?

Fully awake now, she slid out of bed and padded barefooted across the rough

floorboards. A feeling of uneasiness had her hurrying across the tiny landing.

When she had looked in on Gavin last night he had been lying still with closed

eyes, but she had known that he wasn't asleep. He'd probably worried himself

sick all night.

Janie opened the door of the small bedroom and peered inside. It was dark,

because the curtains weren't so rotten and they effectively shut out the cold

inhospitable November daybreak. She stood there in the doorway, waiting for

her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Oh God, no! Panic flared inside her, making her switch on the light and

scrabble with trembling fingers at the heap of discarded blankets at the end

of the bed, praying that somehow she would find Gavin curled up asleep beneath

them. But her prayer went unanswered. There was no sign of the boy; Gavin was

gone.

'What the hell's going on?' Her shout had brought Peter on the run, trying to

blink the sleep out of his bleary eyes, angry at being awakened so abruptly.

'It's Gavin. He's gone!' Janie sensed her own helplessness, her futility. This

time she would not be able to stop the panic, the fear of this past week that

had built up inside her and was threatening to explode at any second in the

only possible way. 'For God's sake, Peter, do something. Find Him!'

'Pull yourself together.' He grasped her firmly by the arm, wondering if he

ought to slap her across the face now or wait until she became hysterical. He

waited. 'The boy's not a prisoner in his bedroom. He doesn't have to wait for

us to get up first.' Peter noted the cast-off pyjamas, the bedside chair where

his son's clothes should have been draped but weren't. Damn it, there was

nothing to worry about. Yet. 'I'll take a look downstairs.'

Peter was aware of Janie following him, and half-expected her to hold on to

his pyjama jacket. She never used to get emotional this way, just a bit

fraught sometimes during her periods. Now she was frantic.

He checked the front rooms, then went back to the kitchen. All empty. They

turned, faced each other, and Janie saw her own fear momentarily reflected in

her husband's eyes. I knew there was something out there last night and now

they've got my baby!

'He might have gone outside. Probably has.' Peter knew that his voice had

trembled, but hoped Janie hadn't noticed it. Damn it, she was unnerving him.

'Let's go and look for him then.* She was already on her way to the back door.

'Hold it.' He caught her by the arm, pulled her back. 'Let's get dressed

first. We can't go wandering about on a cold damp November morning in our

nightclothes.'

I don't care. I don't care if I bloody well catch pneumonia, so long as I find

my baby! She stood there numbed, unable to resist as Peter began pulling her

towards the foot of the stairs. It was like a slow-motion dream; somehow,

after what seemed an eternity, she found herself dressed in her denim suit,

and almost stopped to put make-up on. She followed her husband back downstairs

and out into what would have been an olde-worlde garden had it been

cultivated. Instead it was just a mass of dying bracken and foxgloves, wet

with the dew that soaked their trousers long before they reached the crumbling

stone steps that led up to the granary. Janie noted details that had escaped

her ah" week: the missing slates on the roof, the way the timbers bowed

because they were riddled with woodworm and might snap at any time. Everything

was either dead or dying at Hodre.

She opened her mouth to call Gavin, but no sound came. She mentally shied away

as Peter pushed open the creaking heavy door and looked inside. He was afraid,

too, of what he might see in there, but he had to look.

'He's not in here.' Peter turned back, letting the door swing closed. In the

early morning light his unshaven features looked strained and grey. 'He

must've gone up the fields.'

'Oh no, not up there.' That wood, so dark and forbidding, hiding whatever it

was she had sensed this past week. 'He'd never go into the forest.' But her

expression said that he just might.

'We'd better take a look.' Peter came back down the steps and closed his hand

over hers. Suddenly even he needed Janie's support.

The big wood was only just visible, a dark mass that showed through the

thinning horizon mist like a slumbering monster with a spiked back. A faint

golden glow on the dying bracken showed them that the sun was already up,

trying its hardest to break through. As it melted the grey swirling vapour

Janie became afraid of what they might see. She had to force herself to look.

Some sheep. That rabbit again, or was it a hare, up by the top hedge. Funny

how you noted these things in a crisis when you were all churned up inside, a

kind of inbuilt therapy.

Gavin wasn't on the fields. In which case he must be in the forest. It might

stretch for miles, row upon row of artificially planted conifers that somehow

destroyed the natural magnificence of the panoramic landscape. Hiding -

things.

'He wouldn't go far into the wood.' Peter hoped he would convince Janie,

because he didn't convince himself. 'When we get up there maybe we can shout

for him.'

When we get up there; Janie was hanging on to Peter, her calf muscles

beginning to ache after the first hundred yards. She thought she might be sick

or else burst into tears. Maybe both, only right now it was taking her all her

time to get her breath.

Sheep eyed them curiously, bunched together and moved away as though they

hadn't seen humans before. A ewe was limping as though it had a damaged foot

and Janie found herself feeling sorry for it.

Then they were close to the wood, could almost feel its hostility as they

stood in the shadow of the nearest trees, which blotted out the hazy rising

sun. Silence except for the steady drip of moisture like some form of Chinese

water-torture sent to plague them. Somewhere in the dense coniferous greenery

a magpie chattered harshly like distant guerilla machine-gun fire. A

friendless landscape.

'Ga - vin!' Peter shouted, feeling almost foolish at the feeble noise which

his normally powerful lungs made. It was the fog, or low cloud, or whatever it

was, of course, stifling his shout, not even allowing it to echo.

They just stood there, two people not daring to look at each other because

they did not wish to read the expression of fear in their partner's face.

'He's got to be around here somewhere,' Peter muttered. He thought again about

going into the wood. No, the boy wouldn't go in there, he had no reason to.

But young boys didn't need reasons.

'Listen!' Janie gripped his arm until her fingernails dug deep like the talons

of a bird of prey.

They both listened. The magpie was chattering again as if determined that

these trespassers in a corvine domain should not hear whatever it was. A

movement somewhere in the thicket as though some heavy creature had trodden on

a dead branch and snapped it.

And inside, Janie was wanting to run, to dash headlong back down that steep

field, not caring if she slipped and fell. Her terrors of the previous night

came back like a damp icy cloud driven by a shrill Arctic wind, chilling her

right through. There was something in there; this time there really was!

A monster was forcing its way through a pile of dead bracken, a black-faced

creature with horns and eyes that regarded the two watchers intently and had

them cowering back; then it lumbered out into the open, standing staring at

them with a bewildered expression on its face.

'It's - it's, a - sheep' Janie's voice was weak with relief.

'A ram to be precise.' Peter tried to make it sound casual. 'Nothing to worry

about.'

'But where's Gavin?'

It all came back to stark reality, the hopelessness and the panic which was

starting to return.

'He must be . . .'

Peter's words were drowned by a shrill whining sound that was fast rising to a

crescendo, a harsh noise that seemed to whip the lingering pockets of mist

like a sudden gust of wind; an unexpected flood of weak sunshine shafting down

as though to spotlight the principal actors in this remote drama.

'What is it?' Janie clutched at her husband's arm, noting subconsciously that

he was trembling too.

'Sounds like a chainsaw,' he muttered. 'Bound to be a lot of forestry work

going on in a place like this.'

Louder, painful to the ears, vaguely reminiscent of noises that were all part

of urban life, a faint smell of diesel on the air.

'Look!' Janie pointed back down to the small valley in which Hodre nestled.

'It's - it's - '

'Motorbikes!' There was contempt in Peter's tone; he saw the machines, two of

them traversing the downhill slope, bumping over the rough ground, the riders

somehow managing to stay in the saddles. 'Damn it, we had enough of this

nonsense at Perrycroft, every bleeding night kids roaring round and round the

block creating hell specially to annoy other folks.'

'There's Gavin!' Janie's shriek was audible even above the din of the bikes.

Sure enough even at that distance there was no mistaking Gavin's slight form,

his faded light blue denims showing up against the autumn grassland, his red

hair streaming as he ran; ran because the motorcycles were gaining on him;

mechanical lurchers intent on running down their prey.

'Oh God!' Janie was already moving forward, still holding on to Peter,

dragging him with her. 'They'll run him down, that's what they're trying to

do!'

As they began the steep and slippery descent, heedless of their own safety,

the angry roar of the bikes below drowned their futile shouts. The machines

seemed to be honing in on the fleeing boy, veering at the last second just

when it seemed that they must collide with him. Circling, revving up, driving

him in the opposite direction like a collie in pursuit of a stubborn ewe.

'They're mad,' Janie screamed in Peter's ear, 'don't they realise the danger?'

Of course they do, he hadn't the breath to reply, they're doing it

deliberately, it's yobbish bullying. The way those Wilson boys have been

bullying him at school.

Nearer now, the Foggs covering the ground at an amazing speed, the frightening

scene only a mere thirty yards away portrayed in every brutal detail. The

faces of the black-coated bikers sheer ugliness that was screwed up into masks

of hate, slanted eyes that gave them an oriental appearance, both with thin

lips that bespoke cruelty. Brothers, they might even be twins. They turned,

revved up again, grinned at the sight of their fleeing prey, the way the boy

was stumbling, panting for breath. Then they shot forward again. Janie could

tell that Gavin was screaming, trying to cover his deathly white face with his

arms, surrendering because there was nowhere else to run. She couldn't look

any more; this time her baby couldn't escape those wheels which bore down on

him.

Yet somehow the riders altered course at the very last second. Their victim

had fallen to the ground, a wheel missing his outstretched legs by inches,

pumping stinking black fumes into his face.

'Cut it out, you bastards!' Peter stood astride the boy, paternal protection

in his stance, anger on his face, fists clenched.

The two youths came round in yet another circle and leered when they saw him;

one man on foot could not halt the might of their machines. Jesus,they'd teach

him a lesson!

Peter saw them coming at him. He didn't flinch, knowing they would alter

course again. Afraid for Janie because she was too close, he gave her a quick

glance. Then they came at him, roaring fury bearing down on him. A blur of

sheer malevolence.

He saw the wheels turning to miss him, and braced himself. Bastards, he'd show

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ForTrevandMarSteadTHELURKERSISBN0600206211FirstpublishedinGreatBritain1982byHamiynPaperbacksCopyright(c)1982byGuyN.SmithHamiynPaperbacksarcpublishedbyTheHamiynPublishingGroupLtd.,AstronautHouse,Feltham,Middlesex,England.Reproduced,printedandboundinGreatBritainbyHazellWatson&VineyLtd,Aylesbury,BucksT...

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Guy N. Smith - The Lurkers

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