Paul Harvey stumbled and fell, crashing heavily against a nearby tree. He lay still on the damp moss for long seconds, sucking in painful breaths, each of which seemed to sear his lungs. His calves and thighs were stiff, as if someone had clamped a vice on each leg and was slowly turning the screw. He dragged himself upright, using a low branch for support. Panting like a bloodhound, he leant against the tree and massaged the top of his legs. He licked a furred, tumefied tongue over his cracked lips. It felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth with cotton wool. He stood still for a moment longer then blundered on through the small wood.
He walked awkwardly, like a drunkard and was forced to use the trees and bushes to hold him up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running. Four, five hours. Perhaps more. He wasn’t sure of anything except the gnawing pain in his legs and the burning in his belly. He must have food, that much he did know. The prison was a good six miles behind him now and he afforded himself a smile as he continued his haphazard course through the woods.
A bird twittered overhead and he spun round, taken aback by this sudden sound. He raised a hand as if trying to pluck it from its perch. When that failed he attempted to shout at it but no sound would come. His throat was like parchment. He slumped against another tree, head bowed, ears alert for the slightest movement. They would be after him by now but they would not catch him. Not this time.
He cocked an ear expectantly but heard nothing, just the ever-present sound of the birds and. . .
A twig snapped close by and he froze, pressing himself closer to the trunk of the elm, trying to become a part of it.
As he watched, a small boy, no more than twelve years old, pushed his way through the bushes and picked up a football. With the object safely retrieved, he scrambled back towards the clearing beyond where two of his companions waited. Harvey could see the other children now. He relaxed slightly and moved forward with surprising agility for a man of his size. He was well over six feet two, weighing around fourteen stone. His hair was black, closely cropped and shining. Pupils like chips of emerald glittered amidst whites criss-crossed by bulging red veins.
He moved closer to the edge of the woods, keeping low, well away from the children playing beyond. There were three of them he could see, all engrossed in their game. Harvey parted a bush to peer out at them. His large fingers twitched spasmodically but a look of bewilderment crossed his face when he saw them stop kicking the orange ball around and cross to a large plastic bag which lay behind one of the make-shift goal posts.
They took out some sandwiches and began eating.
Harvey put a hand to his stomach as it rumbled loudly!
He watched the three of them eating.
The time would come.
He watched and waited.
Graham Phelps stuffed the remains of the ham sandwich into his mouth and chewed noisily.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said, motioning towards one of the two thermos flasks.
Colin Fulton dutifully poured him a cup of steaming hot chocolate which he swigged, burning his tongue.
“Fucking hell,” he gasped. “That’s hot.”
Colin and his younger brother, Miles, both chuckled.
Graham, on the other hand, didn’t see the joke.
“What’s so fucking funny?” he demanded, angrily.
He swore a lot. His father and his elder brothers did it too. His eldest brother had been in Borstal for six months and Graham hero-worshipped him, as he did his father. Both of them would think nothing of smacking a woman in the teeth too, if the need arose. They were really hard. Graham’s mind contained a simple equation because he was somewhat simple minded:
Swearing and hitting women = manliness.
As easy as that.
Now he rounded on Miles again. The twelve-year-old, three years younger than Graham and Colin, was an ideal target.
“I said, what’s so fucking funny?” he persisted.
“You, burning your mouth,” Miles told him. “You shouldn’t be such a pig.”
“Fuck off,” rasped Graham and got to his feet, kicking the ball about, dribbling it close to the brothers, bouncing it off Miles’s legs every so often. They finally took the hint and got wearily to their feet, dropping the remnants of half-eaten sandwiches back into the plastic Tesco bag.
Paul Harvey kept perfectly still amongst the trees and bushes, his breath now slowed to a rasping hiss. He watched the three boys kicking the ball about and a twisted grin spread across his face.
Graham decided to show off his shooting ability and lashed a shot in the direction of the makeshift goal but a gust of wind caught the ball and it went flying wide, hurtling into the trees beyond. Graham planted his hands on his hips and looked at his companion.
“Well, go and get the fucking thing,” he shouted, watching as Miles sloped off in the direction of the trees.
Paul Harvey saw him coming.
Miles pushed his way into the bushes and onward until he was surrounded by trees. For the first time that morning he noticed just how quiet it was inside the copse. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked over the carpet of moss, glancing around in his search for the ball. It obviously must have gone further than usual. Even its bright orange colour seemed invisible in the maze of greens and browns which made up the small wood. He stepped up onto a fallen, rotting tree stump, hoping to get a better view. At his feet a large spider had succeeded in trapping a fly in its web and, for a moment, Miles watched the hairy horror devouring its prey. He shuddered and moved away, his eyes still scanning the copse for the lost ball. He stepped into some stinging nettles and yelped in pain as one of them found its way to the exposed area between his sock top and the turn-up of his jeans. He rubbed the painful spot and wandered further into the wood. Where the hell was that ball?
He stood still, hands on his hips, squinting in the dull light. Mist still hung low on the floor of the copse, like a blanket of dry ice, it covered his feet as he walked. Droplets of moisture hung like shimmering crystal from the few leaves which remained on the trees. They reminded Miles of cold tears.
Something caught his eye.
He smiled. It was the ball, about ten yards away, stuck in the top of a stunted bush. He hurried towards it, suddenly aware of the unearthly silence which seemed to have closed around him like some kind of invisible velvet glove. He shivered and scurried forward to retrieve the ball, tugging it loose from the grasping branches of the bush.
Something moved close behind him, a soft footfall on the carpet of moss. He spun round, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
A sudden light breeze sprang up, whipping the mist into thin spirals.
Miles started back towards the openness of the rec, away from the stifling confines of the copse. He clutched the ball to his chest, ignoring the mud which was staining his jumper. The odour of damp wood and moss was almost asphyxiating, as palpable as the gossamer wisps of fog which swirled around him.
Something cold touched his arm and he gasped, dropping the ball, spinning round, ready to run.
It was a low branch.
As he bent to pick up the ball, Miles could see that his hands were shaking. He straightened up, a thin film of perspiration on his forehead. And it was at that moment he felt the hand grip his shoulder.
This time he screamed, trying to pull away but the hand held him back and he heard raucous laughter ringing in his ears.
“All right, don’t shit yourself,” said a familiar voice and Miles finally found the courage to turn. He saw Graham Phelps standing there, his hand gripping Miles’s shoulder. “Just thought I’d give you a bit of a fright.” He laughed again, pushing Miles towards the clearing ahead of them.
“How would you like it if someone had done that to you?” Miles bleated.
“Oh shut up and give me the ball,” said Graham, snatching it from him.
The huge frame of Paul Harvey loomed ahead of them, rising from behind a fallen tree stump as if he had sprung from the very ground itself. He towered over them huge hands bunched into fists which looked like ham hocks. Wreathed in mist, he looked like something from a nightmare and, when he took a step towards them, both boys screamed and ran. They darted in opposite directions, the football falling to the ground where it bounced three or four times. Forgotten. They ran and Harvey ran after them.
They crashed through bushes, ignoring the low branches of trees which clawed at their faces, oblivious to the thorns which scraped their flesh. They both burst into the open, running like frightened rabbits. Colin saw them, saw the terror in their eyes and he too, without knowing why, joined them in their crazed flight.
Harvey watched the children as they dashed across the clearing. He waited until they were out of sight, then, scanning the open ground ahead, anxiously emerged from the trees. He crossed to the Tesco bag and rummaged inside, finding several sandwiches, some of which he stuffed into his mouth immediately. The others he jammed into his pockets. He picked up the first thermos flask, flinging it to one side when he discovered it was empty. The second one, however, was full and he could hear the contents slopping about as he shook it. Pieces of half-eaten sandwich fell from his mouth as he tried to swallow as much as he could.
Beyond the clearing lay the rolling fields which marked the outskirts of Exham. Careful not to drop any of his food, he loped off.
In twenty minutes he had disappeared.
It was 10.05 a.m.