When he wakes up, he finds himself lying just outside the burial mound, on damp grass. He lies there with his eyes open, trying to make sense of what has happened and work out how he got here, like this. Above him, the huge sky is ablaze with stars, more than he can ever remember seeing before. He starts to make out the patterns he knows: the seven stars of the Plough; Cassiopeia; Orion the hunter.
His head aches as if he’s knocked it really hard. Or something hit him. His hand feels the place. There’s a bump, big as an egg.
What happened?
His legs are stiff and his sweatshirt is damp from dew. He sits up and automatically feels for the catapult in his jeans’ pocket. Not there. He stands up, searches the grass. It must have fallen out when he was in the stone chamber. But he’s not going back in there. No way.
The moon has moved into quite a different part of the sky, so hours must have passed with him lying out stone cold. Why has no one come to find him?
He’s suddenly freezing cold. The entrance to the burial chamber looks like a huge dark mouth. He can’t imagine what made him want to go inside it, before. Before what? What exactly happened in there? He starts to shake quite violently.
A wind has got up. It makes a low moaning sound as it whistles through the grass, through the dry bracken and low heather. He can hear the sea thundering on the rocks below. It sounds so close now.
He’s got to get back, find the others, check that they’re all right. Walking without the catapult in his hand, Simon feels vulnerable and small. Every sound makes him start. He retraces his steps. Starts thinking back to Dan’s stories. What would he do if he met that mad bloke here, now? He’s defenceless. He looks around for something that might make a sort of weapon: a stick at least, or a stone. There aren’t any proper trees, though, just thin, blown thorn bushes, and the only rocks are wedged deep in the earth, part of the land itself. So he walks quietly, every sense alert, ready to hide, or run. What if Mad Ed has already come across the sleeping figures of Johnny and Dan? They’d have been too pissed to defend themselves. Whose stupid idea was this, anyway, to camp overnight?
He’s almost there now. There’s the faintest flush of light in the east. Dawn. It lifts his spirits to see the light beginning to spread out across the sky. Everything changes; the dark shadows pale to fuzzy grey. Nothing looks quite so scary. A low mist rolls along the grass like something on a film set. He crosses the last field towards the stile. And then stops. There, neatly laid out on the top of the stile, is his catapult and five small stones arranged in a circle.
He swings around, searching for someone lurking in the hedgerow, watching him, lining up the sights on a gun, getting him into focus. But there’s nothing to see, just the grey shapes of a thorn bush, the stone walls, the damp grass ruffled by the wind that’s blowing in off the sea. He grabs the catapult and scatters the stones, even though they are the perfect size for ammunition, climbs the stile and runs towards the camp where he left Johnny and Dan.
His breath rasps in his throat. His chest feels tight again, like it did in the burial chamber, as if there’s not enough air, only that can’t be true here. If anything, there’s too much.
He sees the dark green tarpaulin strung between two thorn trees, and then at last makes out the two huddled shapes beneath.
‘Johnny?’ Simon pushes the inert figure with his boot toe. ‘Wake up.’
His throat feels tight. He kicks him again, more insistently.
Johnny’s in such a heavy sleep he doesn’t even stir. Simon crouches closer. Now he can see Johnny’s face. In the pale light of dawn it’s ashen. Sudden terror clutches Simon all over again. What if he’s not asleep, but…?
He prods the shoulder nearest him, half expecting the body to roll over, to reveal a bloody, gaping wound.
There’s a groan and then Johnny opens one eye.
‘What?’
‘You’ve got to wake up.’
‘What? It’s still dark. We’ve only just got to sleep. Where the hell’ve you been?’
‘I went for a walk — I told you — but something happened —’
Johnny rolls back over and buries his head in his hood. His voice is muffled. ‘Yeah. Right. Wait till morning, OK? Some of us need sleep.’
Simon rocks back on his heels. He looks across at Dan, slumped over and breathing noisily through his mouth. What’s the point? But he’s so far from sleep himself now. It’s too lonely, awake by himself. Or worse, awake with someone else, someone unseen, watching him. He takes the catapult out of his pocket again and examines it more closely. It’s definitely his, worn in the same places, the same make. And he definitely had it with him when he was walking along the path towards the burial chamber. So unless he dropped it earlier, and Johnny or Dan found it when they were searching for him (did they? In the state they were in?) someone else must have. Someone out walking in the middle of the night.
He shivers. The fire’s out. He tries blowing on the ashes to raise a spark, but the fire’s dead. He scurries around for a while, gathering up twigs and dry lichen for kindling, and some bigger sticks to burn. There isn’t much, and it’s all a bit damp from the dew. He concentrates on getting a spark with the flintstriker, and then carefully feeds and shelters the tiny flame until the twigs catch light. A thin spiral of white smoke rises and he hears the first shift and rustle of fire. He’s done it. He warms his hands and face.
Once it’s going properly he can relax a bit, but that means his mind’s free to think. It keeps returning to the catapult in his pocket. A hand reaching in, pulling it out, while he lay unconscious on the ground. Was he unconscious? Did he knock his head on the stone lintel when he was clambering out? Or did someone do that too? And then they left a trail of evidence to spook him more? But why would anyone do that? And the neat circle of stones, laid out like a present? None of it makes sense.
The fire begins to crackle and spit. The damp wood makes too much smoke. Dan coughs, grunts, turns over. Simon seizes his chance.
‘Oi, Dan! Wake up!’
‘Whazz it?’
‘Wake up. Properly. Listen.’
One eye opens warily. He groans again. ‘Head!’
‘Drink some water. Sit up. I’ll get some.’ Simon rummages for a water bottle in the muddle of kit at one end of the tarpaulin shelter. ‘Here.’
‘What’s up?’ Dan’s speech is still slurred. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know, that’s the point. Something really weird. I mean seriously weird.’
Dan’s in danger of falling asleep again unless Simon makes it quick and exciting.
‘I nearly died.’
Dan eyes him suspiciously. ‘What d’ya mean?’
‘I went for a walk and found this stone burial place, and then someone knocked me unconscious. And stole my catapult.’
‘Good try,’ Dan says, ‘but not plausible enough. Not in the sober light of morning. Very… early… morning,’ he says slowly, to make the point.
‘I’m not making this up, Dan. It’s for real. I woke up on the ground and my head hurt, as if I’d been hit with something, and my catapult had gone.’
‘What’s that, then?’ Dan points to the catapult in Simon’s hand.
‘Well, that’s even more weird. Cos someone had put it back on the stile, obviously for me to find.’
Dan shakes his head. ‘Sad. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
It does sound feeble, said out loud. No wonder Dan’s not interested. Simon turns his back on the fire to warm it up a bit.
The light’s spreading in the sky, turning it golden. Perhaps he’ll make a hot drink. He rummages in his rucksack and fishes out two sachets of tomato soup, pours water into the billycan and balances it on two flat stones over the fire. Johnny and Dan sleep on. He feels utterly alone. His head still aches.
He thinks briefly of Nina, wonders whether she went out with Matt Davies last night. He’s not that bad, not really. It’s just… well, Nina’s his mum, isn’t she? Then he starts thinking about Leah. He imagines telling her what’s happened. She’d listen and her eyes would go even bigger and rounder, and maybe she’d giggle a bit, and she’d think it was really scary. Maybe she’d say something like ‘Let’s go back there together, to the burial chamber, and see what we can find.’ And once they were inside, she’d grab his hand and they would be standing really close to each other and then…
A sudden gust of wind channels smoke right into his face. He coughs and stumbles up, away from the smoke, and knocks the billycan over on to the grass.
‘Damn!’
As he bends to pick it up, something makes him look round. A tiny noise, or just some intangible change in the air alerts him. Someone’s there. He knows they are. Watching him.