Bone Jack (9 page)

They set off up the lane. Sun beating off the road surface. Where the lane hooked around the ruins of an ancient barn, they stopped to stare at the leathery remains of a frog, flattened by a passing car and sun-dried to a perfect cut-out version of itself.

‘You tried to eat one of these once,’ said Dad.

Ash laughed. ‘I never did.’

‘Aye, you did. You were about two, I think. You peeled it right off the lane and your mum just got it away from you before you started chewing on it like a liquorice bootlace.’

‘Ugh,’ said Ash. ‘Gross. Best I don’t remember that.’

‘Do you remember the last time we came out here?’ said Dad. ‘When we slept out under the stars.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ash. Laughed again. ‘And we didn’t bring any food with us because you said we’d catch our own supper. But we didn’t catch anything.’

‘I’d forgotten about that part.’

‘You had to blag food off those campers.’

‘Baked beans and macaroni, aye. Delicious!’

‘We were that hungry by then even a squashed frog would have been delicious.’

They didn’t mention last night, the long walk up to Stag’s Leap and the Cullen farm and back.

They left the lane. They followed the footpath past a row of wind-twisted thorn trees up the lower slopes of Tolley Carn. Then, in the valley below, there was a wink of dazzling light.

Dad flinched and shouted out. He grabbed Ash’s wrist, hauled him behind the cover of the nearest thorn tree, pushed him down to the ground.

They crouched there.

The seesaw of Dad’s breathing, quick and raw.

‘What?’ said Ash. He was trembling, couldn’t stop. ‘What is it, Dad?’

Dad’s breathing slowed, steadied. He gave a sharp laugh. Shook his head. ‘That flash of light down in the valley,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Ash. ‘I saw it. It was just sunlight catching a car wing mirror or a window or something.’

‘I know. I know what it was.’

Ash watched him.

‘There were snipers,’ said Dad. ‘Out in the desert. They’d lie in wait in the dunes or on the rooftops of buildings along the roads. Sometimes the sunlight would flash on their rifle scopes. You learn to dive for cover when you see that. Gets to be second nature after a while.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Ash. ‘There aren’t any snipers here.’

‘I know,’ said Dad. He rubbed his hand over his face, drew a long breath. ‘I know that. Sorry, lad.’

They stood up, continued along the path. The moment should have passed but it hung on, Dad still edgy, his face glossy with sweat, his eyes scanning the mountainside as if he still half expected snipers to be hiding in the bracken.

‘You all right now?’ said Ash.

No reply.

Change the subject. Get Dad thinking about something that wasn’t snipers and war. But he only had one bit of real news. The Stag Chase. Suddenly his mouth felt dry. After last night, Dad telling him about his own time as the stag boy, the timing seemed all wrong. But he’d have to tell him sooner or later anyway. Dad was up and about now, and in a small place like Thornditch, nothing stayed secret for long.

‘I’m running in this year’s Stag Chase,’ he said. The words racing out. ‘I won the trials last month. I’m going to be the stag boy. It’s official.’

Silence.

‘Dad?’

Nothing. It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘Dad? Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yeah, I heard,’ said Dad. A taut smile on his face. ‘That’s brilliant news. I’m proud of you.’

‘You don’t mind? Only after last night …’

‘Don’t worry about what I said last night. My head’s all over the place lately. I knew you were going out running every day and I knew the Stag Chase was coming up, but I’ve been so caught up in my own problems, I never put two and two together. I’m really sorry. You’re a great runner. You’ll leave them in the dust.’

‘But the things you said, about when you were the stag boy. About wanting to jump off the edge of the Leap and Tom Cullen saving your life. Maybe it’s a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn’t run.’

‘That was twenty years ago,’ said Dad. ‘Twenty Stag Chases ago. There are always stories about strange goings-on at the Stag Chase. A bit like Halloween, I suppose.’

‘But you said you saw things yourself out there on the Leap when you were the stag boy. Shadowy figures, ghosts. That black feather.’

‘Yeah, well, like I said, it was a long time ago. I’ve seen a lot of things since then, good things and terrible things. And right now what I’d most like to see is you out there, running like the wind.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe you can put the ghosts to rest for me.’

Ash laughed. ‘I’ll try. Will you come then, watch the race?’

‘Of course I will.’

They trudged up the last stretch to the summit, a crown of burned grass studded with rough grey rock. Beyond, the land fell away steeply to the eastern shore of Pike Tarn.

Dad stopped at the top of the path. He shrugged off the rucksack. Then he just stood there, staring wide-eyed at the lake as if the mouth of hell had just yawned open before him. Suddenly he was sweating and tense again.

‘Dad,’ said Ash. ‘What’s wrong?’

No answer.

‘Dad?’

‘Shut up,’ said Dad. Taking quick, shallow breaths. Still staring down towards the lake.

Ash followed his gaze. No flash of sunlight this time. Nothing out there except a raven flapping over the tarn towards them, rough cries grating from its open beak.

‘What is it, Dad? There’s nothing there. Is it the bird? The raven?’

And it must have been, because there was only the bird, feathers black and glossy as oil, and Dad’s gaze fixed on it as it flew closer.

The raven arced above them, veered away.

‘I can’t do this,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not ready. I can’t do it.’

He pushed past Ash, set off back down the path at a stumbling run.

Ash took off after him. ‘Wait! Dad! What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ said Dad. Breathing hard, his eyes full of panic and a strange sort of anger. ‘Everything. Home. I need to go home.’

Ash followed. Words tumbled from him. ‘Dad, stop. We’re here, Dad, on Tolley Carn. It’s OK. Everything’s all right. The lake’s just there. We’ll go down and do some fishing like we planned. Dad! Please, Dad.’

Dad’s voice came back to him, raw and desperate. ‘Leave me alone, Ash. Stop following me!’

Ash stopped. He watched his dad go, running and stumbling back down to the lane and along it until he was lost to the distance.

Ash crouched in a patch of shade thrown by a thorn tree. Head in his hands, blinking away tears. He felt sick inside. The last thing he wanted to do now was trail back along the path in Dad’s wake to the silent house, the closed doors, the tension that never seemed to go away.

He stood up. There was still the whole day ahead of him. Briefly he thought about going to Mark’s camp, like Mark wanted him to. But he wasn’t in the mood for Mark’s craziness, not right now. To hell with him, and to hell with Dad.

He walked back up to the summit and picked up the rucksack and fishing rods where Dad had dropped them.

On the far shore of the lake, there were boys diving from the rocks. Their distant voices and laughter echoed across the water. Careless, carefree. Lads from school, most likely, but they were too far away for him to see their faces. A year ago, he and Mark might have been with them, diving down into the deep dark water until their lungs felt about to burst, then kicking upwards again towards the bright shimmer of sunlight on the surface.

A sudden loneliness hollowed him. He didn’t make friends easily. He was too skinny and too intense, the sort of kid bullies gravitate to. Not a fighter like Dad. Or like Mark. But Mark had always been there, ever since Ash could remember, and no one messed with Mark so no one messed with Ash either. But now Mark was gone to the wild, and none of the other boys would hang out with Ash until after the Stag Chase. He was the stag boy and they were the hounds and that was just how things were now until after the race.

He had no one. There was nothing to hold on to any more except the Stag Chase, and even that felt like it was slipping away from him, with its dark history unfolding and Mark telling him not to run.

He slithered untidily down the steep slope. A mini landslide of loose stones bounced down ahead of him, but the diving boys were too far off to notice.

On the narrow shingle beach that bracketed the lake, he set down the rucksack and stripped to his underpants. He waded, then swam out and floated on his back.

Swallows skimmed the water for insects.

Underneath him stretched the great depth of lake and mountain, the Earth turning under cloudless heights of sky.

And he was a speck drifting, shoreless.

FIFTEEN

He sat on a rock and let the sun dry his skin and hair. He watched the distant boys larking about at the water’s edge. He ate some of the sandwiches Dad had made, washed them down with bottled water. Then he pulled on his shorts, his walking boots and T-shirt, hooked the rucksack over his shoulders. He scrambled back up the slope to the top of Tolley Carn.

Below him to the east lay Thornditch.

To the south, Carrog Ridge and beyond that the lane that ran around to the Monks Bridge and then towards Mark’s camp.

High on Carrog Ridge stood a solitary figure, motionless, silhouetted against the pale sky.

The hairs on the back of Ash’s neck prickled. Then the figure lifted one arm, waved, gestured as if it wanted him to come across to it.

Dad or Mark. But he knew it wasn’t Dad. Dad would be at home by now, shut in his dark room again. So it had to be Mark.

Or I’ll find you
, Mark had said in his note. And he had found him.

For a moment, Ash hesitated. He could just walk away, keep his head down, focus on his running for the last few days before the Stag Chase.

But he needed more answers, and Mark was the only one who could give them.

He set off towards the ridge.

The raven returned from the other side of the lake, a black rag flapping across a pale sky. Its soft honking call sounded above him for a while, then the bird flew off. Just a regular bird. Nothing sinister, nothing mysterious.

Mark was still there on the high ground, still watching him when he came to the narrow valley on the southern side of Tolley Carn. Mark raised his arm again and pointed in the direction of his woodland camp. Then he dropped down below the skyline, out of sight.

Ash walked through knee-high grass as dry as tinder. Butterflies flopped in the windless air. A pair of buzzards circled lazily high above him. He reached the lane and followed it around the foot of Carrog Ridge to the Monks Bridge and beyond. Then he took the route Callie had shown him to the woods where Mark was camped.

He stepped from the hot glare of sunlight into cool shadow.

The bone faces watched him with their sightless eyes.

Around them, the woods were gloomy and silent. No sign of Mark anywhere, except for the sheep skulls.

Somewhere above the leaf canopy, a buzzard mewed.

The campfire in the clearing was a patch of cold white ash and a few charred sticks. Around it, the tall grass and nettles were broken and crushed as if a dozen or more people had trampled through.

There was something else. A trace of wood smoke in the air. The iron stink of blood.

He looked down.

Rusty flecks spattered on grass and fern. A small pool of blood on the ground, blackish red and glossy. He crouched, touched the tip of his forefinger to its surface.

It was still tacky.

Whether it was animal or human blood, he couldn’t tell. Either seemed possible.

He remembered the venison Mark had cooked on the fire. Maybe that’s all it was, blood spilled from another gutted deer.

He crossed the clearing.

A breeze stirred the leaves.

Now he could smell more than just blood and wood smoke. A sickly sweet, rotten stench filled the air. Flies and wasps stormed under the trees. He swatted them away.

He looked around. Looked up.

A stag carcass hung from a branch above, swinging in the breeze. Its head was gone, hacked off. Maggots bulged and gleamed in the blackened gore at its neck.

Ash covered his nose and mouth with one hand, tried not to breathe. His stomach heaved.

There was a movement in the bushes beyond the carcass. A flash of white and red. Laughter.

‘Ash,’ called a voice. As soft as the breeze through the leaves. ‘Over here!’

‘Mark,’ said Ash. Heart thumping. ‘Stop messing around.’

More laughter.

‘Over here,’ said the voice. Louder this time. Closer, somewhere to the side now.

Ash turned.

A figure came through the trees. Sackcloth mask, scabby with dried clay. Ragged mouth, eyeholes that seemed to have nothing but shadows behind them.

Not tall enough to be Mark.

Now more hound boys approached behind the first. Ash turned but they were all around him, coming from all sides, closing in. No way out. Mark had lured him into a trap.

The hound boys came closer. Their dry, clay-crusted skin pressed against him. The scent of blood came from them, hot and metallic. Their whispering voices were as scratchy as the wind in dead grass, and as senseless. He couldn’t tell if they were flesh and blood or the ghosts he’d seen up on the Leap nearly a week and a half ago.

They wrenched the rucksack from his shoulders.

That felt real enough.

‘Hey, that’s mine,’ he said. He grabbed at it, missed. ‘Give it here!’

Boys from school, he told himself. That was all. Boys tormenting him because he was the stag boy, because Mark had put them up to it. They’d rough him up a bit, try to scare him, and that would be that.

Still, his heart raced with fear.

The hound boys laughed behind their masks. They passed the rucksack back through their ranks and closed in tighter.

One of them scooped up a handful of ash from the cold remains of the campfire. He threw it in Ash’s face, rubbed it into his skin and hair. Ash coughed and choked, eyes streaming.

The weight of their bodies bore him forward. They hauled him over a fallen tree poxy with black fungus, across ground ankle deep with ivy, past clumps of bracken and green licks of hart’s tongue.